River Teeth
by nonbinarybead
Summary: On the edge of graduating from high school, Stan proposes to Kyle in the hopes they can run away together; finally getting out that little mountain town. However, Kyle isn't sure if it's the right thing to do and turns him down. The next day, Stan goes missing. Pure hell ensues. This will be angsty and triggering.
1. Destroyer

**River Teeth:** "...these are hard, cross-grained whorls of human experience that remain inexplicably lodged in us, long after the straight-grained narrative material that housed them has washed away. Most of these whorls are not stories, exactly: more often they're self-contained images of shock or of in ordinate empathy; moments of violence, uncaught dishonesty, tomfoolery; of mystical terror; lust; joy. These are our "river teeth"- the knots of experience that once tapped into our heartwood, and now defy the passing of time." -David James Duncan

 **Sometime in late 2013**

Kyle watched, mouth agape, as the thick, black marker dragged across the skin of his left hand, top left to bottom right, then top right to bottom left. The woman doing this seemed distant, perhaps numbed by the loud music that swelled against the dark walls and neon beer signs. She had a silver septum piercing that gave an edge to her already cute face. Kyle wanted one. The ink seeped and spread like tiny black veins across the tops of his knuckles. X marks the spot. X shows that you can't legally handle alcohol. X shows that you're 14 and have come out to your parents with your new(ish) boyfriend just a few hours before, then left to a concert with said new(ish) boyfriend because they didn't want to sit around and hear what their parents thought of them. It was all planned anyway. Dump the news on the families and split before they can protest.

A beer can flew past Kyle's face and landed by the bar.

Stan was next. He frowned, watching the marker drag over his skin to form a jagged, sober X. He looked up at Kyle and gave him a smile, a polite smile. The one that you copy and paste to yourself when there are strangers about.

"Enjoy the show."

"Thank you," Stan squeaked, then grimaced. Both of them still suffered from a voice crack now and then. With each other, it was okay to tease about it, but in public, it could be painful.

Kyle couldn't remember the band they were seeing; he glanced at his ticket- Strawberry Migraine. Stan was always hung up on indie or local bands- Local Natives, Speedy Ortiz, Butcher Babies, Sparklehorse, Phantogram- dear lord, he never shut up about Phantogram. He put the ticket in his back pocket.

"I didn't think there would be this many people," shouted Stan. R & B pushed itself out of the stage speakers. The bass throbbed and rattled in both of their chests. He grabbed onto Kyle's hand so they wouldn't lose each other in the seedy venue. People of all shapes and sizes dodged past the two boys as they made their way to the stage. Some of them stole a glance at their intertwined hands.

"It's Friday," Kyle shouted. Stan shook his head and shrugged his shoulder. He couldn't hear. Kyle leaned down slightly and repeated himself into Stan's ear: "It's Friday. People are off of work now."

"Oh," said Stan, "Yeah, true."

 _Really, Kyle?_ He thought, y _ou just came out to your parents and ran off with your boyfriend and now you're giving the most mundane responses as if nothing happened today?_

"I'm glad you're here," Stan said and squeezed Kyle's hand. Kyle blushed. Stan's gaze was serene but somehow steely; the way his eyes narrowed in on Kyle gave him chills. Stan never expressed one singular emotion at a time. It was always mixed. Kyle could never tell what he was thinking, and as a result, became accustomed to being terrified of what was going through his mind. Stan would always be Stan, but lately, he had started saying and doing some alarming things. One day Stan would say things like "I fucking suck," to radiating soaring confidence that same afternoon. One time he said "I can't picture my future, it's just black. Why can't I picture myself being older?" One time Kyle caught him digging his fingernails into his wrists in a frustrated yet absent-minded stupor.

(why are you doing this Stan)

(i don't know. i can't feel anything)

(did i do something

can i do something)

(no. never.

i can't talk about this)

"Do you want something to drink?"

"No, thanks," Kyle leaned into Stan's shoulder. The music changed to a subdued surfer-rock bop. Their boots picked up the stickiness of the floor whenever they shifted their weight. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything for me."

Stan turned and kissed Kyle on the highest point of his cheekbone. "But it's a date! I want to take care of you," he insisted.

You've always taken care of me… Kyle thought back to all the weird shit that has happened in South Park over past several years. Stan seemed to understand what Kyle was thinking of by the way he turned his face and planted a firm kiss on his small mouth. What bogus is that, Kyle mused, I can't know what he's thinking but he can read me like a fucking book. But his thoughts about what is fair and unfair faded away and the kiss took over. Stan's thoughts entombed a cesspool of intensity, passion, mania, bleakness, love and intrusion, but he wouldn't know the clinical label for it for quite some time. Kyle just knew that Stan was Stan, and he was himself, and he is the way he is because Stan is the way he was.

The two parted when a few musicians- the opening band, judging by the banner being pinned up on the back wall of the stage- started doing their soundchecks. The deep beat of the bass drum excited Kyle; it vibrated through his whole body. He squeezed Stan's hand, interlaced his fingers. He wanted him. He could take him right there on the floor, amongst the sticky tiles and empty bottles. He could imagine grabbing Stan's sweat-soaked hair and pushing his face into his neck and crying hurt me, I want you to hurt me.

The guitarist strummed a few rushed chords and the audience clapped.

Kyle glanced down at their hands. Neither of them had gotten that far yet- they had been close after a couple of heated make-out sessions, but the truth was that neither of them knew what to do, or even how to start. There's plenty of time. When the right moment comes… that's just it. It'll feel right.

The opening band filed onstage to applause and raised pointer and pinky fingers.

"Yay!" Stan whooped. He grinned at Kyle.

"Wait, do you know them too?"

"Yeah! I think I've told you about October Hands before."

"Oh."

"I was trying to hold my excitement in so I wouldn't look so dorky."

"But-"

An older man in a black tank top, who had been watching them for some time, clapped his hairy hands on the boys' shoulders, causing them to jolt.

"So, you two came together huh?"

Kyle turned to look at him. He was eye-level with the guy. One day soon, Kyle would be taller. Stan looked up at him.

"Yes. Yes we did," Stan unleashed their fingers, then gripped his hand into a defensive fist.

The man clapped his hands on their shoulders again. October Hands introduced themselves, then slammed into their first song.

"Stay right there. Don't go anywhere."

The man disappeared behind them, blending with the mass of bodies. Stan and Kyle looked at each other.

"Should we leave?" Stan shouted. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern, but Kyle didn't want him to miss his bands because of some bigot.

"No, fuck him!" Kyle slid his arm around a beaming Stan's waist. "By the way, I love your dorkiness."

Stan nuzzled into Kyle's neck, pressed his lips into his soft skin. He felt Stan's eyelashes brush lightly on his jawline. He shuddered a bit. Stan kissed his cheek again and looked out at the stage. Kyle suppressed the urge to pull Stan into the bathroom and lick every part of his body. He forced himself to look at the stage too. Kyle was never really into metal, nevertheless indie metal, but it was entertaining.

The man from before returned suddenly, holding three beer cans above his head. "For you!" he gestured them to Stan and Kyle.

"I don't think we should-" Kyle began.

"It's just Guinness, it's good for you."

Stan wasn't apprehensive at all. He took two cans and opened them both, then thrust one at Kyle's chest. He took it with a bone-white hand. The foam gushed at the small opening, begging to be licked up.

The man grinned at Stan, "good kid," he remarked. He put a hand on the back of Kyle's neck of Kyle's neck. Not creepily, but in a father-type way.

"Don't ever let anyone tell you how to live your fucking life," he said. Kyle smelled his breath. It was safe to assume that he had been already drinking and was feeling sentimental. Great. "Does he make you happy?" the man asked Kyle, pointing at Stan with his own can.

"Yes," Kyle said. He smiled weakly at Stan. He tried not to make eye contact with the stranger. He looked at Stan and asked him the same thing: "does he make you happy?"

"Very much so," Stan never sounded so sure of anything in his life.

The man seemed satisfied with this answer. "Cheers!" he said. He gave them one last nod and then disappeared into the people again.

"Thank you!" Stan called after him. October Hands transitioned into a new song. A few people towards the front of the stage tried to start a mosh pit. Kyle dove and started sucking the foam off the top of his Guinness like a crane diving for small fish in a lake. "I wish I was that can," said Stan with a teasing smile. Kyle blushed.

"I pretended it was," he shot back. Then it was Stan's turn to blush. They continued watching the band, bopping along, drinking, brushing their hands together, trying to avoid getting sucked into the pit. When October Hands threw their last guitar pick into the crowd and walked off. The venue's music played again. Trevor Something. Interesting choice.

"What did you think?" Stan was done with his Guinness now. Kyle noticed small streaks of sweat piling on Stan's forehead, just under the cloth of his hat. Kyle put his free arm around Stan's shoulders and pulled him into a deep, slightly buzzed, sloppy kiss. His tongue pushed it way into the warm, wet opening, tasting everything Stan had said that day, especially to his parents: "I care about Kyle," he tasted, "I love him" he tasted that too, "you can't stop us from loving each other," he savored that the most.

A few crew members for Strawberry Migraine began their soundcheck. Kyle pulled away but kept his arm around Stan's shoulders.

"I'm in love with you," he rasped.

Stan smiled up at him, eyes half-lidded, "I'm in love with you too."

The sound of the drums being tested thundered in Kyle's body again. "I'm proud of what we did today."

"Me too." Stan suddenly hugged Kyle, "I don't know what I would have done," he said into his ear.

"What?"

Stan tensed around Kyle's body: "I don't know what I would have done if you had died that one day."

October 2, 2010

Eric Cartman entered his backyard with a cup of hot cocoa that his mom had just made, and one of his books for school. He slid the glass door behind him. They had started reading The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton as a class. He liked it fine, but he had a hard time taking any character named Ponyboy or Sodapop seriously.

The air was crisp and smelled of spruce. It was that first assault of an oncoming winter, but anyone that had grown up in South Park had thick enough skin to just regard it as another day. Cartman didn't even wear gloves.

5th grade was four weeks in now and it felt like the world was backward. The school had separated his class into two groups, two separate classrooms- one group would study English and social studies with one teacher, and the second group would have a science and math lab with a different teacher. After lunch, the groups would switch off.

Cartman was placed in the first group, the English and social studies group, while Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Butters were in the group that did math and science in the morning. He never saw them except for at lunch or that transitional march down the hallway, where the two groups would pass each other on the way to their consequential classrooms. The other boys took this as an opportunity to distance themselves from Cartman, as they had tried and failed to do so many times before. Cartman noticed, and immediately began inserting himself into moments of their lives where he obviously wasn't welcome. He watched one afternoon as all of them engaged in a game of kickball.

No one asked him if he wanted to join.

No one even looked over to him.

He kicked up a spray of dirt and gravel in Stan and Kyle's direction and sulked off.

Cartman sat down on one of the chairs and thought about the day before. It was Friday, and he wanted to see if he could get even the tiniest reaction out of Kyle. I'm still in your life you little fuck, you can't ignore me forever.

It happened during the switching of the classrooms.

All of them shuffled down the hallway with their textbooks and folders, past rows of lockers. When he saw Stan and Kyle listening to Kenny who was walking backward and mumbling things (about 'big titties' presumably). He pointed at Kyle's foot:

"Mmph Mmph, mmmph mmmph mph, mmmphh (Hey Kyle, your boot is untied)."

"Gimme your books so you can tie it," said Stan, even though Kenny was already holding out his arms to offer the same thing.

"Thanks, Stan." Kyle deposited his supplies on top of Stan's pile of books then bent down on one knee. The other students parted into two streams and walked around them until it was the three of them behind the line.

Cartman seized his chance. He dropped his books and relished in the echoing thunder that violated the halls, causing everyone to look up at him. Except for Kyle. He knew who it was. He saw Cartman's face for just a moment a few seconds earlier. He knew him too well and he didn't want to anymore. He just wanted attention. And what do you do when a child is having a tantrum? You don't give them what they want. Kyle didn't even want to breathe when he was near.

Cartman charged.

Kenny turned towards him and stuck out a hand to stop him, but it wasn't far or fast enough.

Cartman lunged down, crashed into Kyle, and they both slid across the marble floor. Cartman hit the top of his head on the locker, but with the force of his hand under Kyle's chin, made sure that Kyle hit his head even harder. Much harder. Kyle instantly blacked out. His foot, wearing the still untied boot, twitched sporadically.

"Kyle!" Stan and Kenny screamed in unison. Cartman, wide-eyed, released his grip around Kyle's neck and stared at the pale boy crumpled on the floor like an unstrung puppet. His head stung.

"Eric! What were you thinking?!" Mr. Garrison ran over. He got down and lifted Kyle's wrist, checking for a pulse. Stan was holding onto Kyle's knee, absolutely flushed. "He's okay, he's just knocked out, children," he turned to Stan, "He's okay, Stan."

Kyle's eyes fluttered open. They were almost completely bloodshot. One pupil was severely dilated.

"Kyle!" Stan tried to hug his friend, Kenny grabbed his shoulder and shook his head.

"Give him some space, Stan. Kenny, run down to the office and have them call an ambulance," Garrison commanded. Kenny dashed away. Garrison put his hands on Kyle's shoulders, "Well, congratulations Kyle, you got the first concussion of the school year. Can you stand up?"

Kyle blinked a few times before answering in a tiny voice: "I think."

"Okay, I'll go slow."

"That's what she said," Cartman quipped. He wanted so badly to squirrel away this moment, to remember Kyle on the floor, a twisted skeleton, in pain, because of him.

He was met with burning glares from everyone, Stan stood up and pointed at Cartman, "Fuck you, dude! You almost killed Kyle!"

"But I didn't though. Your little Jew cumrag will live to see another oven."

"Shut the fuck up, Cartman!" Stan stormed over, raised his fist, ready to strike. The students and Garrison clamored and yipped, the students' enthusiasm amidst Garrison's warnings to stop.

"Stan!" A strangled voice cried out, "Stop!"

Everyone stopped and looked to the voice. It was Kyle's. He was standing now. A little wobbly, but he was up. His eyes were wide and wild. His hat had fallen off, and his red ringlets clung to the sides of his face and forehead.

"Oh, shit!" Butters cried, "He's got the Jersey face on again… you're fucked, Eric!"

"You don't scare me," Cartman replied, zeroing in on Kyle's mouth. He was almost foaming like a rabid dog.

"I wanna fucking punch him," Kyle said to no one in particular. Everyone, including Stan, backed up a little. Mr. Garrison kept a grip on Kyle's shoulder, but Kyle drudged over close to Cartman, taking Garrison with him.

"Kyle, don't you dare! We're ending this now!" Garrison warned.

Kyle ignored him. "My fist is going down your fucking throat, lardfuck! I'm going to pull out your insides and throw them somewheres in the ocean!" He spat in Cartman's face.

Cartman wiped it off with a flick of his wrist and stood there calmly; arms at his sides. He was basking in the spotlight again. Kyle was leaned forward over Garrison's arm across his chest. "Why did you fucking do that you absolute dipfuck!"

"Because I…" Cartman was suddenly caught off-guard by a worm-like stream of blood flowing from Kyle's nose. It hit the top of his lips and fanned out over the corners of his mouth. Cartman had never seen anything so beautiful before. I did that, he thought, I made Kyle bleed… "Because I wanted to see what would happen." He managed to say.

Kyle opened his mouth to deliver a nasty retort, but a wave of vomit rose and gushed from him, spilling all over the floor, earning a collective groan from all of the students. Kyle slumped over Garrison's arm. The force of the upheaval caused him to pass out again.

Cartman smiled to himself as the memory played again in his mind. Truthfully, he had felt a little guilt up until Kyle's parents showed up and Sheila Broflovski got in Liane Cartman's face and told her she was raising a psychopath.

He got suspended for two weeks.

Cartman sipped the hot chocolate Liane had so lovingly made for him.

Psychopath.

The word sounded sensual to him. It teased him to come closer. He wanted to put his fingers inside it and wiggle them around. He wanted to make Kyle bleed again. Might as well be what they think I am. But what to do, what to do…

He set down the pale blue mug and The Outsiders on the plastic footrest and stood up. Put his hands on his hips. He could sneak into Kyle's room, he knew how. He could crawl in very early in the morning and press a blade to his flesh. Not in such a way that it would kill him, but enough to see the crimson wash over him in beads. It would be direct. Fast. Unexpected, but traditional.

A crash came from the shed where he and his mom kept their bikes. The door was ajar. Cartman cursed himself for not remembering to lock it before. It may be some asshole from his class, snooping around.

Agitated as hell, Cartman walked over to the shed, flung the door open, expecting to see Clyde or Craig rummaging around, but instead of a classmate, there stood a large, hissing raccoon. Its beady black eyes glowered at Cartman as it prepared to lunge. Cartman gasped and immediately slammed the door. Hastily he closed the silver lock. The raccoon continued hissing and scratching on the inside.

Eric Cartman thought of something just then.

…

Cartman knocked on the Broflovski's door. He mentally ran through what he would depending on who answered the door- Ike: push him out of the way and go upstairs, Mr. Broflovski: explain that he wants to apologize to Kyle and ask to be let in, Mrs. Broflovski: drop trou, piss on the steps, and run away. If it was Kyle…

Kyle answered the door. He was still in his pajamas and looked dazed. His pupils were back to normal, but the whites of his eyes were still bloodshot, and when he looked on Cartman, he sneered.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"And good morning to you Kyel, how's your little head?"

"Go away," Kyle went to close the door. Cartman put his foot forward to stop him. "I said go away, Cartman! I don't want to see you."

"I understand that, and I'll leave as soon as I say what I need to say."

Kyle's grip loosened on the door. He opened it again, "What?"

"Can I come inside?"

"Uh, I guess," Kyle hesitantly stepped aside and let Cartman walk in. He closed the door. "Okay, say what you need to say. I want to go back to bed."

"I thought that it's dangerous to sleep after a concussion. Where is everyone?"

"They went to Whole Foods. And that's actually a myth. I've already been treated, sleeping will help me recover."

Maybe I should have hit you harder.

Cartman walked past Kyle and sat on the couch. He patted the seat next to him. Kyle rolled his eyes, but he slid onto the cushion by him anyway.

"Kyel, I want to apologize for slamming your head into the lockers. You see, you guys have been dickheads to me ever since the school year started-"

"And you wanted us to notice you-"

"You make me sound needy when you put it like that, Kahl."

"Well, you are. You always want attention-"

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, Kyle! God damn, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted to see what would happen."

Kyle scoffed, "You obviously did mean to hurt me! What the fuck kind of apology was that?"

"It's not a good one, I know."

"You could have killed me! If I had hit my head any harder…"

Cartman turned away, smiled to himself, then turned back to Kyle with a straight face, "I know that now. I don't know if I could have lived with myself if I had killed my best friend."

"You're not my best friend," Kyle said flatly.

"No, but you're mine."

"You've called Kenny your best friend before."

"That's… different. I've always felt that you and I understood each other better than most."

"I've always felt like I'm Clarice Starling and you're Hannibal Lecter, to be honest."

"See? That's exactly what I mean! That's my favorite movie."

"Figures," Kyle looked down at his feet. He didn't want to admit that Cartman was slightly right. "I guess I kind of accept your shit apology."

"I wasn't looking for acceptance. Just wanted to say my piece. So I'm gonna go now." Cartman slid off the couch and started towards the door.

"Are you going home?"

"No, I think I'll go for a walk."

"I'll come too. I need air. Mostly because of your breath." Kyle went for his coat and shoes. Cartman grimaced but inside, he couldn't be happier. Kyle had reacted the exact way he wanted him to.

"Oh, shouldn't you go back to bed?" Cartman suggested in an empty, insincere voice.

Kyle pulled on his staple orange jacket and his (now washed) green hat. "We're going to the corner store and you're getting me a slice of pizza because you fucking owe me."

"Buy you a pizza just to watch you pick off all the pepperoni?" Cartman twisted the knob and opened the door. He let Kyle out first.

"I'll give you the pepperoni."

"Oh, what a deal."

They walked in silence for a minute before Kyle spoke: "Cartman, I'm sorry that we've been ignoring you, but I know that you know why."

"Yeah, I know."

Kyle stopped walking. Cartman continued for a moment before he realized Kyle wasn't at his side. He looked behind him. Kyle stood with his hands in his jacket pockets. One of the buttons on his pajama top was missing. The late morning sun glowed over his face, making his dark green eyes a bit brighter. From a distance, you couldn't see how tired he looked. "Do you really, Cartman?"

"What do you mean?"

"Things are changing, Cartman. We're changing too… but you, you keep doing the same shit over and over again. You're too much effort to be around anymore. It's draining."

Cartman looked down at the concrete. He still had time. He could go back. Take the suspension and move on. Deal with more years of only God knows what. He looked up at Kyle's sunken face. "What I mean to say is, if you want to be a part of our friend group again, you have to cut that shit out."

Cartman nodded slightly. He knew what he wanted to do. He approached Kyle and took his hand, "I want to show you something that I found this morning."

…

Cartman led Kyle into his backyard with a clammy hand. A few bangs and rustles echoed from the shed.

"What the hell?"

"Look look look," Cartman let go of him when they reached the door. He undid the lock and pulled Kyle in a little closer.

"What the hell is in there?" Kyle squirmed at Cartman's arm around his waist.

"We got a dog," Cartman replied with a smirk.

"Why is it in the shed?!"

"You'll see," Cartman moved his arm back and opened his palm over Kyle's spine. With one swift motion, he opened the door with his other hand and pushed Kyle inside. The raccoon glided across the floor and pounced.

"WAIT!" Kyle cried. Cartman slammed the door and latched the lock. Kyle pounded on the door. "LET ME OUT! CART-" Kyle screamed. Cartman heard his body thump against the heavy wooden door. "HELP ME! PLEASE! IT'S BITING ME!"

Cartman backed away slowly, away from the sounds of the raccoon's hissing and Kyle's screaming and crying.

…

Stan and Kenny sat on the couch, a bowl of pretzels in between them. Stan was on his third attempt at trying to survive Dead Rising 2.

"You still need to get Zombrex for Katey," commented Kenny before his hand dove into the bowl. He had let his hood fall back. He hadn't had a haircut in months, and the blond tendrils covered his shoulders.

Stan shook his head while cutting a zombie in half with a chainsaw, "Fuck Katey."

"You're going to feel bad if she dies."

"No, I won't."

"You cried that one time you found a dead bee in my driveway. You will."

Stan continued thumbing the controller. He had called the Broflovski house earlier to see if Kyle wanted to stay over, but his mom said he was still sleeping. One of the zombies glomped him, and soon he was drowning in a mass of them. The screen faded and the game restarted. "God damn it! I guess it's your turn, Kenny." He turned to hand the controller over.

Kenny was unresponsive. His eyes were rolled in the back of his head. Stan dropped the controller and grabbed his shoulder, "Kenny?" Stan knew that Kenny was prone to seizures, but he had never seen him completely still like this. Kenny's mouth was open and drooling, a bit of pretzel dust puffed out when he exhaled. "Kenny?" Stan repeated. He shoved Kenny and he fell over like a tree stump. "Ken?!" Stan grabbed a glass of water and splashed it on Kenny's face. Kenny jolted.

"Where's Kyle?" Kenny sat up, rubbed his eyes, and scanned the room.

"Huh? Kyle's at home sleeping, dude," Stan gripped the glass, staring at his friend's red, distorted face, "are you okay?"

"No. Yes. Kyle's not home."

"Uh, what?"

"Something is wrong… I think Kyle needs our help."

…

Cartman stood numbly in the wet grass, listening to Kyle's screams for help. Keenly, he sensed the presence of someone behind him. Stan and Kenny were running towards him. Cartman lunged at Stan and grabbed his wrist, gripping so tightly that he could feel the little bones grinding together.

"Ow! Cartman, let go!"

Kenny darted towards Kyle's screams. Cartman kicked him in the ankle, causing Kenny to drop. Stan twisted his arm in an effort to release himself Cartman raised his other elbow and plunged it into the bridge of Stan's nose. Stan went down, covering his face with his hands. Cartman delivered a swift kick to his ribs to make sure he stayed there.

"Stan!" Kenny screeched. Cartman towered over him. Kenny kicked upwards, his foot plummeted into Cartman's stomach, pushing him back. Kenny rolled over and went for the shed again. Cartman started after him, but a wheezing Stan grabbed onto his pant leg. He fell down onto his stomach.

"Fucking let go, Stan!"

Stan said nothing because he couldn't, he just held on to Cartman's ankles as tightly as he could. He breathed hard and shakily.

Kenny yanked the locked off the door. It was still set on the correct combination, he was relieved to see. He swung the door open and the raccoon emerged into broad daylight. It gave one last hiss at the boys before scampering away.

Blood swelled over the concrete floor. Kenny saw his friend's body sprawled out, dirty, cut open like a cadaver. Kyle groaned softly. His eyes were glazed over. Kenny sucked in his breath and reached for Kyle's top half. He dragged him out into the yard.

Liane opened the sliding glass door, "Eric, I bought you a- Oh my God!"

Stan let go of Cartman and crawled over to Kyle and Kenny. Kyle's head was in Kenny's lap. Most of his clothing had been torn- there were several cuts and scrapes on his chest and arms. There was a gushing bite wound under his ear.

Liane flipped open her phone and dialed 911. Cartman sat up.

"Don't fucking come over here!" Kenny screamed at him.

"Kyle?" Stan whispered. He put his arms around his best friend's torso, rested his head just lightly on him. A twinge of blood transferred to Stan's cheek. "Kyle… please hang on… don't go… I love you."

The unmistakable warble of sirens was heard down the street. Kyle looked up, tried to breathe in small, steady breaths. He felt himself going, going until the sky turned black.

April 29, 2017

He was dreaming about walking in the dark again. In these dreams, he can't see anything but he can feel the black surroundings close in on him. His heartbeat thickly pounds in his chest until it bursts and coats the inside of his ribcage with clotted blood.

He chokes.

Tries to reach inside himself.

The stomach turns.

They always end up like this, and he wakes up alone, vulnerable to the dark bedroom and whatever can take shape in the dark. This time, however, someone was watching him.

Someone was there for him when he woke up.

"Hey," he was squeezing his hand, "Hey, Kyle, are you okay?"

Kyle Broflovski, 17 years old and in love, weakly looked up into his boyfriend's face. His neck was stiff. His other arm was locked at a backward angle. "Yeah, I think so." They had been studying in Stan's room all Saturday morning until Kyle passed out in the middle of writing an essay on Othello , which he tactfully titled, "White Ewe Tuppin'." A couple of empty paper cups from Tweek Bros. lay about him like knocked over chess pieces. Caffeine can't always replace sleep.

"You were all twitchy and shit, dude. And you're sweating. Were you having that dream again?" Stan Marsh asked. He watched as Kyle moved onto his back and stared at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes. The fluorescent lighting made Kyle look paler than he already was.

"Yes," he replied, "but it gets darker every time I dream it. I can't tell if my subconscious wants me to be Lara Croft and explore caves, or if there's some faction of my subconscious that's revealing itself to me now that I'm on the brink of adulthood…"

"Kyle-"

"Or maybe I'm going to die-"

"-don't you dare say that." Stan was holding both of Kyle's hands now.

"What if in the afterlife, coffins are like… infinite? But you're just doomed to walk platforms of darkness?"

"Platforms of Darkness sounds like a gay metal band."

"Stan. Why do you keep referring to things as gay when you've had my dick in your mouth. Several times. I lost count after the first twenty times."

Stan turned a special shade of coral-pink, "Fair enough." He bit his bottom lip, then smiled. "But I think you're being a little dramatic. You probably just have anxiety about graduating."

"I hope that's all it is. It's been happening for months now. I just want it to stop."

"It has to be," said Stan. His eyes were sure. "I'm a little uneasy too. All we've ever known up until this point is school. But you tend to take these things to heart. It'll be okay." Kyle sat up and pulled Stan closer to him. "You have carpet imprints on your face," Stan grazed his thumb across Kyle's cheek.

"Yeah, why the hell did you let me sleep on the floor?" Kyle asked. His neck was still stiff. "Why didn't you take me to your bed?"

"Dude, you're like, a foot taller than me and you're all muscle. How would you expect me to do that?"

"I don't know… the power of love?" Kyle smiled.

"Oh, that's just nice and cheesy." Stan said. Still, he pulled Kyle in closer and kissed him. He felt Kyle's hands instantly trailed up under his shirt, along his shoulder blades. Stan pulled away, his hands buried in Kyles auburn, slightly damp hair. "Let's go for a walk."

"What? Right now?" Kyle asked weakly. It never took him long to get lost in the heat of the moment.

"Yeah," Stan stood up and ran to his dresser to get socks, "It's a nice day and Sparky needs the exercise."

"I thought we were going to do an exercise…" Kyle grumbled

Stan laughed. "My parents are home. Also, you're loud."

"I'm trying to be quieter…"

"No, don't. I like to know when I'm doing a good job."

Now it was Kyle's turn to blush. It was true that Kyle had a tendency to be the vocal one, whereas Stan breathed heavily and whispered Kyle's name in breathy coos. After another few seconds, Kyle turned over and pulled on his green Converse. The early evening sun spilled golden light all over the room and Kyle agreed, it was probably best to be outside for awhile. It would be a nice distraction, to be out in the world instead of stuck in his own mind. The thoughts of all these new chapters- graduation, college, entering the workforce- all of it chilled him. He knew he would be okay in the end, and they still had a month of high school left, but it was nerve-racking all the same. " One day at a time, Broflovski. Kenny told him once, you think so far ahead that you forget to be here in the present." Kyle finished tying his shoes and turned back to his lover of almost five years. Stan was usually much more dramatic, but lately, he seemed happier. Ecstatic even.

"Stan, why aren't you as nervous as I am?"

Stan was sitting on the bed now, lacing up his decrepit Adidas. "Because I can't wait to get the fuck out of high school. As soon as we can, I want to move as far away as possible. The more names I forget, the better." He said this almost all in one breath. It became clear to Kyle that he had thought about this a lot. Stan stood up and grabbed Sparky's leash off the dresser.

Kyle stood up too. "Hopefully you won't forget mine." He hated when he blurted things like that. Something tugged in his chest whenever he had conversations with Stan about the future. The answers would always be obvious in Kyle's favor- neither of them could imagine a future without the other. But Kyle liked the reassurance. No one was ever as honest with him as Stan was.

Stan approached him and placed his arms around Kyle's shoulders. Kyle looked down and pressed his forehead against Stan's.

Quietly, sincerely, Stan said: "I would never forget your name. I would never forget you at all."

…

Kyle didn't blame Stan very much for wanting to forget everyone. Being forced to spend seven hours a day with the same cluster of people for years can be aggravating. The people that you think you'll be friends with forever turning into walking husks that you barely noticed anymore.

"People grow apart, bubbe," Sheila Broflovski had told her son several times, "you'll be very lucky if you and Stan even stay together after high school." That comment always left a sting in Kyle's chest. He never openly admitted that was worried that Stan would change his mind about him. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Stan was also keen to Kyle's anxiety.

Bebe Stevens fell into the druggie crowd after Wendy Testaburger moved to France with her family. Kenny McCormick dropped out at the start of junior year to help his family start their auto-repair shop after the old one burned down. It was turning their luck around, but Stuart McCormick was always too drunk to actually show up to the shop, and Kenny was always stuck working. Tweek and Craig melded into their own private bubble. Almost never apart- they breathed each other and never interacted with anyone else.

"That can't be healthy," Kyle once commented, watching the couple isolate themselves in a back corner at Token's birthday party.

"See? We're already better than them!" said Stan, "at least we're our own people!"

"It's not a competition, Stan."

"You're right, you're right," Stan was looking every which way about the room. Kyle held onto his arm, as he always did for Drunk Stan, "It's not like there's a gay competition."

"Or gay Olympics," said Kyle. He was a little buzzed himself. "Ooh, Gaylympics?"

Stan spit out the Fireball and Dr. Pepper combo he was drinking and they laughed together. All Butters overheard was "gay Olympics" and laughed too. He was still cool.

After the incident with Kyle and the rabid raccoon, Eric Cartman was sent to juvie. The concussion was brought into the jurisdiction as well. Kyle had to endure several painful shots in the arm. Most of the scars healed over, except for some tiny deep ones on his hands, a few larger ones on his chest, and the bite mark under his ear.

…

"Hey Dad, can you crack Kyle's back? We're about to go for a walk and he's been sleeping on the floor." Stan's request echoed through the house. He started putting the leash on a dancing Sparky. Kyle immediately recoiled. He did not like the idea of being held by Randy Marsh, especially now that he was emerging from the kitchen with no shirt on.

"I can crack you, Kyle! My freelance chiropractor biz is really taking off-"

"It's okay, Mr. Marsh, I"

"Though I haven't done anyone yet that's 6'1", I guess you'll be my first!"

"Please don't say it like that," Kyle said lowly. Stan was grinning, holding Sparky like a baby. "I'm really all right, Mr. Marsh."

"It'll take two seconds," and with that, Randy was behind Kyle. He crossed his arms, mummy-style, and lifted him up and up until there was a symphony of cracks that Kyle had never felt before. He didn't realize he was carrying so much tension.

"You enjoy that new spine now," Randy was beaming.

…

"He's cracked me before," said Stan as soon as he shut his front door, "You know I'd never put you in danger."

"I know… but he was shirtless, dude!"

"Oh, yeah. He was. I guess I don't notice those things much anymore."

"Lucky you."

They made their way down the street and onto the path that led to Stark's Pond, Sparky leading the way. Even though he was getting older, Sparky still acted like a puppy- charismatic and springy.

Kyle glanced at Stan to see that he was lost in thought. His face was serene, but his eyes were focused and unflinching, just staring in Sparky's direction. Stan was also very beautiful. Any time he looked in his direction, it sent Kyle's heart aflutter. His blue eyes varied between deep, royal shades to light mint depending on his mood. He a few chestnut-colored freckles on his nose and cheeks. His jawline could cut diamonds. He was letting his raven hair grow out a bit.

Kyle couldn't help himself. "I love you."

Stan looked over at him, wide-eyed. "What did I do?" he asked, even though he knew what Kyle was about to say. What Kyle would always say:

"You're just so cute."

"I'm not…"

"You really are."

Stan just shook his head and smiled. They continued, occasionally kicking rocks in their path, or letting Sparky sniff random bushes.

"I love you, too," Stan said finally. Kyle didn't say anything. He smiled to himself, but he felt Stan's brief gaze against his cheek just before they reached the pond. Sparky stretched out on the ground, his back legs splayed out behind him.

"There he goes, doing that 'sploot' thing again," said Stan.

"Is that what it's called? A sploot?"

Stan laughed, "Yeah, I think it's just another way of cooling off his junk."

"Can't say that I blame him," said Kyle. He was starting to feel normal again. Stan tied Sparky to a bench.

Kyle went to sit down. "It's kind of weirdly hot outside today," he said, "it's only April-"

"Wait, Kyle!" Stan grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "Hold on a second."

"What?"

"I need to talk to you," said Stan. He took Kyle's hands in his. "I've been thinking for a long time about this," his grip tightened slightly, "and I think we should talk about some stuff."

"Like what? Is something wrong?"

Stan just shook his head. He looked like he wanted to speak- his mouth opened but no words came out. He looked worried.

"Stan, you're scaring me." Kyle almost wanted to take his hands away. He was terrified. "Just be honest… are you mad at me or something?"

Stan buried his fingers in Kyle's hair and met his mouth an intense kiss, slowly and warmly, as if he hadn't seen Kyle in years. Stan placed another soft peck on Kyle's lips before leaning back, their arms linked together at each other's torsos.

"I'm like, the opposite of mad. Why would I be mad at you?"

"I don't know. Being me, I guess."

"But you're amazing."

Kyle shook his head. "What did you want to talk about, Stan?"

Stan drew away slightly, "It was actually something I wanted to ask." He dropped down to one knee. Kyle's cheeks flushed. He felt like he was breathing through a straw. Stan pulled a simple gold band from out of his pocket. "Kyle Broflovski, will you make me the happiest fucker in Colorado and be my husband?"

…

"That's amazing…" Kyle Broflovski, eight years old and genuinely impressed, took off the earmuffs that Cartman had plopped on his head before playing the brown note on an unsuspecting mailman.

"I told you guys!" Cartman was practically jumping out of his own skin with excitement.

Stan turned to Kyle, "Dude, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That they should bring back Chicago Hope for another season, totally!" Cartman suggested.

"No!" Stan was hyped, "that we could use that brown noise to get back at those asshole New Yorker kids!"

Kyle smiled deviously, "Yeah, dude!"

…

Kyle realized that this was the first time, in a very long time, that he didn't agree with Stan.

"I wanted to wait until your birthday to do this, but the ring finally came yesterday and I just couldn't wait." He looked up at Kyle, shaking slightly, but purely adrenalize by the moment.

"I don't know." Kyle finally managed to choke out.

"Wait, what?" Stan's face looked as if someone shattered a sheet of glass all over it.

"Stan, I love you, but-" he pulled Stan back up so that they were eye level, "I think you're doing this because you're afraid. I'm afraid too, but we can't just latch on to each other because we're scared we're going to grow apart or something…"

A switch turned in the form of Stan's face. His eyes started watering. "I'm not afraid of that, Kyle. That's what you're afraid of. I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know that I want to be with you until I die."

"Stan, please it's just not the right time. Please don't be upset." He tried to hug Stan but he stepped back.

"Don't tell me to not be upset, Kyle!" Stan now had tears streaming down his cheeks. "Have the last four years meant nothing to you?"

"What the fuck? What does that have to do with anything? They've meant everything to me… Can we just go home and talk about this? You've never brought up marriage before. It feels kind of random."

"I just… I don't know if I can keep standing here," Stan started towards Sparky, who was oblivious to the matrimonial turmoil, but regarded Stan with loyal concern. Kyle's stomach dropped and his throat constricted, rendering him hoarse.

"Stan, are you actually listening to me? We can talk about this…" Kyle said weakly. He didn't like the feeling of losing control. The feeling of watching everything blow up in his face.

"I think you've said enough," said Stan, leading Sparky away.

"I have said enough. All you've done is blow up on me!"

"All I've done, all I have ever done is love you, Kyle!"

"Oh, look, now who's being dramatic?"

"Whatever!" He threw the ring down in front of Kyle, a small spout of dirt jumped at the impact. Stan walked off, leaving Kyle alone staring at his feet. "I'll call you when you can come get your stuff… but I'm sorry. I just can't." Stan had stopped at the mouth of the park to shout back at Kyle. He looked over at Stan's sulking form.

"Stan?"

"What?"

"Do you hate me?"

"I… I don't know."

"Stan…" (why are you doing this Stan)

(i don't know. i can't feel anything

i feel everything now)

"If I hated you, this wouldn't be hurting so much."

"Stan, don't leave like this. Please."

"No, Kyle. I think we're done here," Stan huffed and turned away.

Kyle wanted to run after him, but his legs felt like weights, anchoring him to the soil. He picked up the ring and studied it, turning it over in his open palm. Kyle gasped softly- "SBF" had been engraved on the inside.

That familiar darkness crept in.


	2. Lucifer, whispering

Kyle lied on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His eyes moved across the different posters taped up there. One of them was for Strawberry Migraine- they had been signing things at the merch table after the show. The memory of Stan holding his hand so tightly… it wasn't that long ago, but so much had happened since then.

He reached for his phone- he didn't hear any notification sound- but he couldn't stop checking it:

 **Hey Stan… I am so sorry about today. I know that you put your heart on the line today. I was wrong to react the way that I did. I've never second-guessed wanting to be with you forever. I'm just scared. You know that I let my anxiety get the best of me sometimes…**

 **Please call me soon. I want to work this out. I love you. So much.**

Kyle reread that last message he had sent hours ago over and over before sighing heavily. He had used "me" and "I" too much.  
Of course, there was no response from Stan, it didn't even look like the message had been opened yet. Kyle opened up the Facebook app and went to Stan's page. It still said "In a Relationship with Kyle Broflovski," but it didn't mean anything. Stan could still break up with Kyle if he wanted to.  
Soft music played downstairs. Kyle's parents always played music they cooked together. The tears came flowing even harder at the realization that he would never know what that was like. Instead, he saw himself dying alone.

He checked his phone for what felt like the 156th time. Still no response.  
Gerald knocked on the door, "Kyle, we need to talk. You've been in your room for too long."  
"Please, don't." Kyle's voice was barely a decibel above a croak. Gerald came in any way. Kyle groaned.  
"What's going on with you today?" He sat down at Kyle's computer desk. Kyle was now sitting cross-legged on his bed, zoned in on his phone. Gerald sighed, "can you put your phone down, please? I'm not trying to direct this conversation to the top of your head."  
Reluctantly, Kyle placed his phone face-down on the nightstand, an old habit from when he and Stan first started dating and didn't want his parents to know yet. Stan loved to send filthy messages sometimes. "Stan and I had a fight today. It was... pretty intense."  
"You guys have fought before, it'll be alright."

"I don't think so…"

"Kyle, your mother and I have argued a lot over the years, and sometimes, I would feel like there was no way we could see through it… but it's going to pass. If you're as good of friends as you always say you are, it'll be okay. You have to believe that."  
Kyle looked down at his folded hands. They were so pale that they almost looked dead. There were splotches of violet on his fingers. His skin was clammy all over.  
"Dad… I don't know for sure, but I feel like we broke up."  
"Oh. Why?"  
"I don't know. Something about it just felt… final. I can't really explain."  
"Well, just give him some space. There's not much you can do logically if you're all worked up like this."  
"I was thinking about going over there actually-"  
"NO, that will make you look like a psycho. Just give him space. Things may not be as bad as you think," Gerald started to rise, "Come down and have dinner with us. It'll be good for you to get away from the phone, you can trust me on that. But think about what I said… don't jump to conclusions just yet."  
Kyle did think over what his father had said. But the more he thought about it, the heavier his heart became, and the overwhelming feeling of dread fanned out in his belly and up through his spine. 

_April 30, 2017_

 _12:57 am_

 _Colorado Juvenile Detention Center_

Colorado's delinquent department was supposed to be a place of meditation, education, and discipline. Most kids were out in a few months, maybe a year.

Eric Cartman was the exception.

His behavioral patterns had grown worse over the years, forcing him to stay confined in those concrete walls. He didn't know it yet, but as soon as he turned 18, he was going to be transferred to a high-security federal prison. It was clear to the staff, as well as Cartman's lawyer, that someone deeply steeped in treachery as he could not be molded into a reformed citizen. He could snap at any moment, and his mood always turned violent.

Chakwas was on the night shift, and he always paid more attention to Cartman than the rest of the guards. Cartman would have to be as quiet as possible.

His cell was very minimal. People can tell a lot about someone by what they keep in their personal space. He didn't want anyone to know anything about him. The other inmates didn't even know why Cartman was there. He was fine with it. After being sentenced, Cartman had learned to thrive in isolation.

He spent most of his time in the library, reading and writing. He read every book in there except for one fly away book- a small handbook on Demonology. Cartman wasn't unfamiliar with the occult and suspected that reading it would be like reading the back of a shampoo bottle. Just something to do.

But he never knew there were so many of the monstrous beings, having roots in so many different cultures. He didn't want to make anyone suspicious by checking it out multiple times, so he read it over and over, taking notes and drawing sketches.

Now he was ready to play.

Everything was embedded in the fluff of his mattress: a small plastic straw, cardboard, a flattened milk carton, a mini-flashlight (stolen off the belt of a rookie guard), and a razor.

A Ouija board would be the easiest way to do it. He chided himself for being predictable, but there was no other choice. Deal with the cards you've been dealt.

With the flashlight pointed across the floor, he folded the milk carton into the shape of a planchette. Tore the unnecessary edges off. Then he reached for the razor. It hovered over the soft underbelly of his arm, hesitant. No other choice. He pushed the razor into his skin and with an uncomfortable grunt, brought it down. The blood was darker than he expected, not like how Kyle's was. He used the straw as a quill and started the alphabet: "A… B… C…"

Footsteps approached. It was Chakwas. Cartman clicked off the flashlight and quickly pushed his supplies underneath his bed and climbed in, securing his bleeding arm underneath him. He stared at the wall. Chakwas's dim flashlight swayed around in the halls outside, then disappeared.

"Fuck," Cartman whispered to himself. The blood was drying already. He tumbled quietly back down to the floor and began working again. This was going to take awhile. But it would be worth it. Later:

"8… 9… 0..."

Then "Yes." "No." "Goodbye."

He looked down at his gruesome handiwork.

Now all that was left to do was use it, and see what he could make happen.

 _April 30, 2017_

 _2:03 am_

Stan Marsh walked along the road with his hands in his jean pockets. He had gone home, fed Sparky, had a silent dinner with his parents, went to his room, thought about texting Kyle, decided against it, laid in bed and cried, tried to sleep, turned on _The Office_ to have some background noise, cried because of Jim and Pam, tried to sleep again, failed, and now here he was, walking alone downtown with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. He knew Kyle had been texting him. He just couldn't think of how to respond or if he even wanted to read the messages in the first place. Eventually, he would have to say something. He said he would.

A pair of headlights bobbed along the road towards him. Stan made out the shape of a Jeep, but it wasn't Kyle's Jeep. It slowed down and stopped by Stan. Jimmy Valmer leaned out of the passenger-side window.

"Hey, b-b-b-bitch. Want a r-r-ride?"

"Not if I have to do what I did last time," replied Stan. He looked over at Token in the driver's seat, to Heidi, Bebe, Clyde all crowded in the back, looking concerned. "I hate Monopoly," he added.

"Where are you going, Stan?" Token leaned over Jimmy's lap, "Do you need a ride?"

"Not going anywhere. Just needed a walk."

Clyde asked, "Where's Kyle?"

"Oh. Probably sleeping… he wouldn't want to be out this late anyway."

Heidi locked on to Stan's welling eyes. "What's wrong, Stan?"

"It's nothing."

"You're crying…" Heidi and Bebe both exited the car and hugged him. They reeked of weed.

"What happened?" Bebe was rubbing his arm, "Did you guys break up?"

"I… I don't know. It felt like it. But I don't know."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" offered Token. "We can talk about it over a bowl. You look like you could use it."

"And you know Token gets the best shit," chimed Clyde.

"T-t-t-there's always r-r-room for you, S-Stan."

"I appreciate it, but I just need some air. I'll go home and sleep it off after this."

They all nodded, hummed their goodbyes, and left Stan once more. He breathed a sigh of relief and headed towards Stark's. He didn't want to go back there but he didn't know where else to go.

Stan decided he'd just try to enjoy the walk, despite the circumstances. It was quiet, which is rare for a place like South Park. All of the day-to-day distractions make it hard to focus.

The entrance to Stark's Pond became visible over the horizon. He crossed the street and entered the dark woods.

Admittedly, the trees wigged him out a little. Their twisted figures and bent limbs took on more intimidating forms in the dark. They seemed to be whispering. A cloud of whispers wafting around him, pushing him in deeper. A wind chime softly echoed. Sometimes people hung them up even though they weren't supposed to. He followed the sound to a small circular clearing, looked around.

He replayed in front of him what had happened several hours before. He saw ghostly versions of himself and Kyle, yelling at each other. He shook his head. The vision went away.

 _Maybe we should wait,_ he thought, _I did overreact…_

He knew he put Kyle in a position that was unfair. He had a point when he said they've never talked seriously about marriage before. Maybe it was all too much at once.

Stan thought about the Strawberry Migraine concert. The way he held his hand, how he put his head on his shoulder… how he wanted to pin Kyle down right there on the floor.

The whispers swelled again. A bitter chill slithered up his spine. Stan winced. He wanted to leave, but his feet wouldn't move. They seemed almost cemented down. He twisted himself, tried to at least fall back. Failed. He _really_ couldn't move.

His right boot began sinking into the earth. Then his left one started sinking too.

"What the fuck!" Stan moved his hips side to side, trying to thrust himself out. "No!" The dirt was climbing up to him. It was at his knees now. "Fuck! Help! Someone help me!" He screamed. He wiggled frantically. It made its way up to his chest. He raised his arms and tried to find something to grab on to. He sunk faster.

It was up to his neck now.

"Help!" Came Stan's strangled cry. It covered his chin. "Kyle!"

The lips of the earth pulled his head down, letting his white fingertips jut out above the surface before swallowing them too.

…

Kyle woke up, breathing heavily. He immediately checked his phone. No messages, still. He went to the bathroom and cleared the cold sweat away from his face. His lips were pale. His eyes puffy.

He had dreamt about being in the dark again, but he was following Stan's voice. The sound of Stan's weeping carried over to Kyle, but he couldn't call out to him. It was an endless loop of looking and listening, not being able to speak. When Stan did finally appear before him, he was a mangled corpse, opened and dissected; and the knife was in Kyle's hand.

He crawled back into bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin. He wished Stan was there.

For good measure, he checked his phone again. Still nothing. He opened up his texts and started thumbing away:

 **Stan… I hope you're okay.**

He backspaced.

 **Stan… please be alright. Please, please be okay.**

 **I miss you so much.**

It was 3:06 am.

He put the phone down and reached into his nightstand drawer. He pulled out the engagement band and slide it on to his ring finger. It fit perfectly, of course.

Kyle Broflovski, 17 years old. Distraught. Anxious. Still in love.

He turned over and closed his eyes, clutching his hand to his heart. 


	3. Rubber Ocean

_June 3, 2017_

 **HAVE YOU SEEN ME?**

 **Name:** Stanley Marsh

 **Age:** 17

 **Description:** Blue eyes, medium-length black hair, approximately 5'5" in height, and weighs about 140 lbs. Has a paw print tattoo on the inside of left wrist. If you know the whereabouts of Stanley please notify the South Park Police.

Kyle didn't have the heart to tell Sharon that it might be better to create a missing person ad on Facebook to reach more people, but he also figured that not everyone uses social media, so, why not? But he hated putting up these flyers as if Stan were a missing dog. He also didn't want to believe that this was his current reality.  
 _I've done nothing but pick at the skin around my fingernails and run my thumb over his ring- turn it around and around my finger hoping he'll appear in my doorway perfectly in once piece and he'll say "I'm sorry, babe. I still love you. I won't go away again."_

He sat in his white Jeep Wrangler, holding the flyer in front of the steering wheel. The photo that Sharon used was Stan's senior photo. His hair had been combed back and he was wearing a tie that was too skinny. His dimples were edited out. To Kyle, it didn't look like Stan at all, at least, not the way he knew him. Stan hardly ever combed his hair and there were always holes in the armpits of his tee shirts. The Stan that he knew also hated having his picture taken, and it definitely showed in that glossy, stylized photo.  
He put the flyer back on the stack on the passenger seat, then lit a cigarette. He only did it when the stress was too much to be coped with naturally. 10-year old Kyle would have been disappointed.  
That flyer had missed some things… it could never capture the way he laughed. How much he loved animals, how he always smelled like oranges for some reason…

 _I need to stop thinking about him in the past tense._ He took a long inhale and let the smoke billow out of his nostrils as tears rolled down his freckled cheeks.

…

The paw print tattoo wasn't the only scarred skin on Stan. When they were 16, Kyle went through a phase where he wanted to be a tattoo artist, despite not having much artistic aptitude. He could draw some things, but he had just liked the idea of having elaborate sleeves and wearing muscle tanks, just inking away all day. When he got his hands on a stick-and-poke kit, he locked himself in his room and immediately went to work. He chose a killer whale. A killer whale on the very top of his left thigh. More meat there, he figured, less pain.  
It wasn't as bad as he thought it was going to be, and when Stan saw it, he asked for one too.  
"You really want me to tattoo you?" Kyle asked. The two of them were in bed. Stan was snuggled into Kyle's neck, his warm breath gently caressing it.  
"Yeah, but I don't want a killer whale," he said, "I want a humpback."  
"I just gave you a humpback," Kyle turned over to look at him.  
Stan rolled his eyes, pulled Kyle in closer, "you know what the fuck I mean."  
"Where do you want it?"  
"Same as you, but on the other side so when we stand together sometimes, the whales will be together. Just don't tell my parents."  
Kyle ran his hand through Stan's raven hair and kissed the tip of his nose, "you're my whale."  
"What?" Stan laughed, "What does that even mean?"  
"It means… I don't know… you're cute." He couldn't think of loving anything or anyone more than he loved Stan at that moment, or ever since then.  
"I'm not…" Stan protested.  
"You really are." Kyle pulled him into a deep kiss. He climbed on top of him.  
"Kyle!"

…

"Kyle! Hello?"  
Kyle snapped out of his daydream to see a familiar mass of blonde hair and blue eyes.  
"Oh, hi Kenny."

Kenny scratched at his face. It was obvious he had just shaved. He smelled of Old Spice and a little bit like weed. His hair was grown out again and pulled back into a ponytail with a few small braids. He was wearing his _Invader Zim_ gauges. Sheila hated the fact that Kenny stretched his ears, but Kyle thought the look suited him.

"I thought you quit smoking," he said.  
"Would it be cliche to say that I did, but the smoking didn't quit me?"  
"Yes. And fucking lame."  
"Oh. Then I don't have an answer for you… uh, why are you here?"  
"I wanted to check on you."  
"Just text me?"  
"It's not the same. Our best friend is missing, Kyle. I think that requires some personal attention."

Kyle just nodded and took another inhale. He pressed his palm into his thigh. Rubbed his wrist into his jeans. He hoped Kenny would go away. But Kenny stayed put, pressed into the driver's side door.  
"Aren't you going to invite me inside?" Kenny reached in and playfully pinched Kyle's arm. Kyle frowned. His cigarette was now a stub. He pushed it into the ashtray and watched forlornly as the last bit of smoke rose and disappeared into the air.

"What, are you a vampire now?"  
Kenny shrugged, "Feels like it sometimes."  
"Yeah, okay. You can get in."  
"Grazie," Kenny replied sarcastically, emphasizing the "r." He sounded like an Italian Tony the Tiger.  
"Whoa," Kenny had already opened the passenger door. He gripped the flyers in his calloused fingers.  
"Doesn't look like him, does it?"  
"No, not really," Kenny pulled himself into the car seat, still studying the image. "No," he said again.  
"No," Kyle echoed him, though he sounded defeated. Helpless.  
"Are you supposed to put these up?"  
"Yeah," he reached into the center console and pulled out a water bottle. The cheap plastic crinkled in his hands.  
"Want some help?" Kenny asked, "I have time."  
"You do? I'm shocked." Kyle took a huge swig of lukewarm water. Kenny said nothing, but his lip twitched slightly. "Sorry," Kyle said abruptly, "I know you do your best."  
"Forget about it… it's not a big deal."  
After a pause, Kyle said, "I think we should go outside of town. Stan would know better than to stick around here if he didn't want to be found. So, I doubt that he's anywhere near here. Especially with how long he's been missing."  
"Denver?"  
"Maybe. Maybe some other places too."  
Kyle started the Jeep. The clock radio read 10:37 am. "We better start now, then."  
"Hi-yo, silver," Kenny mumbled.

…

After a couple hours of driving and stopping, and driving again, they ended up at the Rose Mall, an outdoor mall that didn't have many stores, but more fountains and benches. High-class citizens and their pampered dogs were everywhere. But most importantly, there were community boards. They only contained advertisements and posters for local events, but Kenny managed to charm the mall director, a tall woman in a floral blouse that reminded Kyle of his grandma's curtains, into letting them post Stan's picture.  
"My stomach is hurting for some reason," Kyle groaned as they walked past an artisan soap shop.  
Kenny put a hand on Kyle's elbow, "Did you eat today?"  
"Yeah. I had an apple at breakfast."  
"That's not enough. Not for a whole day."  
"Food has no taste anymore. Can we sit down?"  
They sat down on a mahogany bench, across from a couple, who were on their phones.  
"I don't think I've eaten a full meal since Stan went missing. I just pick at the food. Sometimes I don't eat at all," Kyle embraced himself and leaned forward. There was a dead bee at his feet.  
"If you don't eat, it's going to make your anxiety worse."  
"I know. But I'm too depressed to do anything. All I've been doing really is sleeping. I just want to know where he is. Not knowing… not being able to find him to apologize… It's killing me, Kenny."  
"Apologize? For what? What happened?"  
Kyle was silent. A strong breeze blazed through them. Kyle shook his head.  
"Stan wanted to get married."  
"So?"  
"So, he proposed to me."  
"Oh. Wow."  
"Yeah. And I didn't know how to process it, I suppose. My response wasn't what he expected or wanted, so he left. And I haven't seen him since. All of this feels like it's my fault."  
"It's not your fault, Kyle."  
"I think it is…"  
"It's not. I know you don't want to hear this, but, you're not responsible for him and the decisions he makes. You can't control him, or get inside his head or whatever."  
"Ken… I'm worried that he may have hurt himself."  
The couple across from them were still on their phones, but it was evident that they were turned in on Kenny and Kyle's conversation.  
"I hope that he hasn't," Kenny sighed. "We'll find him, Kyle, okay? Who knows when, but we will."  
Kyle couldn't muster anything besides a quiet, "yeah."  
"Can I ask you something?"  
"What?"  
"Do you want to marry Stan?"  
"Someday, yeah. When the right time comes."  
"In my experience," Kenny leaned forward so he could see Kyle's face, "there's no such thing as the right time."  
Kyle didn't look at him. He concentrated on the bee. It still retained its shape, no one had stepped on it yet. Not yet. "I think about it every single day. That last time. I could have done anything differently. I got in the way of my own heart. I'm always locking myself from happiness," Kyle rocked slightly back and forth, "And now he's gone. Probably dead. Because of me."  
"Stop saying that, Kyle. You have to stop blaming yourself," Kenny stood up and pulled Kyle up with him. "It's going to distract you from actually finding him if you get too wrapped up in your own feelings."  
Another gust of breeze channeled by them in the direction someone who was laughing so loudly that it bounced off the bricks of the shops. It sounded a bit like Stan's laugh. Kyle looked into the distance and saw a mass of black hair about forty feet away, attached to a body that had its back to him.  
"Kyle, I know what you're thinking… don't…"  
 _Same build, same laugh_ , Kyle thought, _I don't want to get my hopes up, but…  
_ Kyle took off running, leaving Kenny bewildered. His Converse pounded against the concrete. A few people stopped and looked. Kyle grabbed the boy's shoulder.  
"Stan?"

 _No, it wouldn't be that easy._  
"Can I help you?" The boy asked. Not a boy. A man. An older man.  
Kyle immediately retracted his grip. "I thought you were my boyfriend."  
"Uh. Nope," the man said, amused. Then he saw the grave expression on Kyle's face. "Sorry," he added.  
"Do you need help, young man?" A woman emerged into Kyle's field of vision. _The stranger's wife?  
_ "N-no…"

"Kyle!" Kenny jogged up behind him, only slightly out of breath.  
"My stomach…" Kyle started to double over.  
"What?"  
"I-I think I'm going to puke…"  
"There's a bathroom by the Skechers store, over there," the woman pointed.  
Kyle took off, once more leaving Kenny behind.  
"Um. Too much to drink, I guess," he said to the couple.  
"Really? Tall guy… must have had a lot then. Make sure he gets home safely," the man put his hands on his hips while the woman nodded.  
"Will do," Kenny pointed finger guns at them, "Excuse me."  
He turned on his heel and left.

…

Kyle launched himself into the first available stall and heaved. Painfully. Burts of stinging fire, the worst kind of warmth. Then it was over. He wiped the excess saliva from the bottom of his lip. Looked into the toilet. Kyle hadn't vomited since he was a child, but he knew what to expect. This, however, this was different.  
Drenched clumps of soil filled up the bowl. A few earthworms lazily wriggled and pulsed in the Earthy mass. Kyle blinked. Once. Twice.

 _Did that seriously just come out of me?_ The restroom door opened. Kenny's work boots clunked on the marble flooring.  
"Kyle? You okay? What stall are you in?"  
"I'm okay," replied Kyle. Quite dryly, he added, "Don't come in the stall though, it's really gross."  
 _I should tell Kenny… No… I can't. How do I even know this is real? How do I know I'm not dreaming?_ "God damn, dude. Flush it down." Kenny was right outside the stall. Kyle ignored him and reached down into the soil.  
 _What?_  
He scooped some out and sifted through, felt the rough, tiny pieces of-  
 _Rope?_  
 _Rope, worms, and soil?  
_ "Death," Kyle whispered, involuntarily. As if someone else was controlling his mouth.  
"What?" Kenny opened the door a tinge. Kyle didn't have time to lock it before upchucking.  
Kyle said nothing, just sucked in his breath. He was feeling dizzy.  
"Kyle, come on. We need to leave. Now."  
"Okay, mom." Kyle finally flushed the toilet and stood up to face Kenny.  
"Holy fuck."  
"What?"  
"Dude, you look like someone strangled you…"

 _December 4, 2015_

The tattoos weren't only scarred skin on Stan.

" _Your ankles make me want to party…"_

"Haha, what?"

Stan and Kyle had been studying for their mid-term exams. Stan was stretched out on the Marsh's living room couch while Kyle sat in the armchair, hunched over a foldable table. The words in his Biology textbook were beginning to blur, so he welcomed the distraction from Stan.

"This poem reminds me of you, Ky," Stan was perusing _Mayakovsky's Revolver_ by Matthew Dickman. He continued: " _Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing."_

"That's… fairly direct," Kyle quipped.

"Ooh, ooh. This part ESPECIALLY reminds me of you: _Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place-"_

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Kyle threw one of his several pencils at him.

"Why do you have _Hello Kitty_ pencils?"

"A PENCIL IS A PENCIL, STAN."

Stan just giggled and continued reading the poem in silence, twirling the sparkling pink pencil in his fingers. He finished with a soft 'hm' and started flipping back to the beginning of the book.

"You're not going to read them in chronological order?"

"Reading them in chronological order would imply that I read each one the time it was written. I don't have that information, Kyle. I also can't account for how many drafts each specific poem went through, or how it was determined to be finished."

"You sound like me now."

"You rub off on me."

"That's true, considering how many crusty shirts I've seen on your bedroom floor," Kyle smirked.

Stan rolled his eyes and smiled. "Look," he said, "I just got this book and I want to cruise… non-linearly. I think that's a word."

"You're so weird."

"Yeah, but I think you like it."

"Read me the whole thing."

"The same poem?"

"Yes."

"Okay, let me find it again… _Your ankles make me want to party…"_

Stan continued reading as Kyle crept over to the couch and sat on his lap. Stan put his hand on the small of Kyle's back without taking his eyes off of the page.

" _Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey…"_

Kyle took Stan's arm and put it on his lap, started gently caressing his wrist, pushing the sweater sleeve down. Stan gasped. Stopped reciting.

"What's wrong?"

"Kyle, don't…"

"What-"

And then he felt it. The striated skin. Rough ribbons all the way down to his elbow. Kyle turned Stan's arm up towards him and saw the scars. Some were fresh; they looked like they were about to bleed again.

"Please don't be mad at me."

"Stan… why?"

"I just… I've been so stressed out lately and… I don't know. It makes me feel better."

Kyle said nothing. He blinked quickly, trying to not let Stan see the tears that were forming.

"I feel better after I do it," Stan repeated. "Like… relief."

"Stan, please," Kyle said softly. He knew if he sounded even the least bit aggressive, Stan would recoil. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts when you do this?"

"You're mad at me."

"No, I'm far from mad." He took Stan's hand and squeezed it. "I'm scared. I'm terrified that one day you'll go too far and I'll lose you forever… Please, Stan, please. We need to get help for you. I want you to feel better."

 _Darling, you're my president; I want to get this right!_

…

Kyle vowed not to say anything to Kenny until he could figure out for sure if what he saw… what he felt, was real.  
"I'll drive, I'll drive," Kenny had said. He practically tore the keys off of Kyle's belt loop. "Lay down in the back if you have to."

...

"I think we should go to urgent care. You look like hell. And you're probably dehydrated as fuck."  
Kyle couldn't tear his eyes away from the fields as they drove by like he might see a body at any second.  
"Don't take me to urgent care," Kyle's throat stung. "I just need to sleep."  
"Are you absolutely sure?"  
Kyle said nothing, just nodded.  
"At least drink some of your water."  
Kyle did as he was told and threw back what was left. The water was even hotter than before. Almost 200 degrees. Kyle immediately opened his mouth and let the searing water cascade over his chin and chest.  
"Holy fuck, holy fuck that's hot!"  
"Shit- Kyle-"  
Kenny pulled into a random strip mall. The wavering streams in Kyle's brain caused him to slump forward. He was losing consciousness, his vision fading in and out. A sewing needle disappearing and reappearing in the cloth. Then everything went dark.  
 _Nowhere to go._

…

Kyle awoke to his face in Kenny's shirt. _I wasn't out that long…_

Kenny was carrying him into a tattoo parlor. A sweet blast of air conditioning hit the side of his face.  
"Oh my God," a woman behind a desk jumped up when she saw Kenny struggling to open the door. "Do you need me to call 911?"  
"No," Kenny sat Kyle down on a chair, breathing heavily. "Do you have pop? Or orange juice?"  
"Yes!" She disappeared into a back room.  
Kyle's ears buzzed. Cold sweat coated his back. Kenny kneeled down and pushed Kyle's hair back off his forehead. "Some color is coming back to your lips. That's good. They were almost white before."  
The woman came back with a can of Coca-cola and opened it for Kyle. She handed it to him and he immediately started drinking. The cold can and the brash acidity was refreshing. She put a hand on his shoulder, "are you okay, honey?"  
"Yeah," replied Kyle, just above a whisper. He was starting to come back now.  
"He's always had blood sugar issues," explained Kenny. "Ever since we were kids."  
"Oh," the woman looked over at Kenny. A pinkish tint filled her cheeks. Kyle rolled his eyes.

…

"I know that this is the last thing you want to hear, but when you're feeling better, promise me that you'll eat something?" They were back in Kyle's Jeep, parked in his driveway.  
"I'm convinced that you're actually a Hebrew mother now," Kyle was slouched back in the passenger seat, his hands over his face.  
"Well, I fucking told you, Kyle, if you starve yourself, you feed the anxiety."  
"OH-KAY. I got it."  
"Tell me you wouldn't be the same way if this had happened to Ike."  
Kyle lowered his head, looked emptily at the dashboard. It needed to be cleaned. The sun really brought out the dust.  
"No… you're right," he admitted. "I would. But I'm not your little sister, Kenny."  
"No, but, we're kind of like brothers. At least, we grew up like brothers." Kenny stretched his arms out in front of him and yawned. "We know each other pretty well."  
Kyle thoughtfully placed his palm over his chest and traced the biggest scar with his fingers, all the way from between his nipples to just above his collarbone.  
"How did you know, Kenny?"  
"How did I know what?"  
"When Cartman locked me in the shed with that raccoon. You knew exactly where I was."  
"You were screaming…"  
"But you and Stan were really far away. There's no way you guys actually heard me."  
Kenny smirked, looked down at his lap. "I just knew. I felt something."  
"I swear you have Cthulhu powers or some shit."  
Kenny bit his lower lip, revealing his small overbite, then shook his head. Kyle watched his face.  
"Sometimes you can feel when someone you care about is in danger, Kyle. It's not supernatural, it's intuition. It's love."

Kyle mulled it over, thought about all the times he dreamt that he was destroying Stan.  
"I think I'm going to go inside now. I feel nauseous again." 

…

Kyle watched from the Broflovski's front window until Kenny was less than a speck on the horizon before opening the door.  
 _Time to visit an old friend._

…

The Colorado Juvenile Detention Center looked exactly as Google Maps predicted. Grim. Covered in random vines and weeds. Underfunded. Kyle's Jeep rolled slowly on the gravel driveway leading up to the front office. When he entered, the guard behind the glass didn't even look up at him.

"Excuse me? Hi."

The officer moved his eyes up to Kyle's face but still didn't move his head. Kyle read his nametag: "M. Chakwas."

"Hi," Kyle greeted again. "How are you?" No response from Chakwas. "Um, I'm here for visiting hours."

"Never seen you before. You might not be on the approved visitors list. You got ID?"

"Yeah," he fumbled around his pockets and produced his drivers' license, then handed it through the slot. _Looks like Chakwas has seen some shit,_ Kyle observed.

"Who are you visiting today?"

"Cartman… Eric Cartman."

Chakwas jolted, "Are you serious? That kid? That kid is… messed up." Something in his eyes had changed. "Are you sure?"

Kyle felt like he was getting asked that question a lot lately. He tightened his mouth and nodded curtly.

"That's just as well, you and his mom are the only ones he put on his visitor list."

 _That's not fucking creepy at all…_

"However, you can't be in the regular visiting room," Chakwas slid Kyle's ID back through the slot, "he has to stay confined."

"Okay…"

"What's your relationship to the inmate anyway?"

' _Inmate…' that suits Cartman well._ "I'm the kid that he tried to kill."

…

 __Kyle rapped his fingers on the counter. His legs twitched. His ears were itchy. His throat was dry again. The figure that appeared before Kyle, between the thick layer of glass, was unlike anyone he had seen before. Wide-set brown eyes tucked into a purely square face. Ruddy cheeks. Enormous shoulders. A bulbous nose. If Kyle didn't know any better, he would have thought he was meeting a Pixar character. Nevertheless, it was Cartman. He had recognized Kyle instantly, judging by the wide, toothy smile he gave when the guard sat him down.  
"Hi, Cartman," Kyle said flatly.  
"Wow, Kyle!" The voice that came out of Cartman was high-pitched. Mocking. "What a handsome young man you've become!" He raised his hands and clasped them together, tilted his head to the side.  
Kyle ignored it. "It's been awhile."  
"Ooh, yes. Seven years, nine months, and two days if you want to get detailed!"  
 _Has it only been about eight years? It feels like 50…_  
"How's your family?"  
"They're fine, Cartman-"  
"You know my mom stopped visiting a couple years ago."  
"I know, Cartman…"  
"I'm sure everybody fucking knows. That's the thing about small towns," Cartman stared directly into Kyle's pupils, "Everyone is all over everyone else's shit," he pointed his index finger to his temple, "Sometimes you can tell what people are thinking about you just by looking at them."  
"I think people are too wrapped up in their own thoughts to worry about some fat kid walking down the street-"  
Cartman brought his fists down on the counter with a thunderous blow. Kyle jumped and his heartbeat quickened.  
"Hey!" A guard stepped forward, "Watch it! Don't break more shit, you fucknut!"

"Yes, sir!" Cartman responded with urgency, then flashed Kyle another toothy grin. "You have to not do that, Kyle."

"No anger management classes here?" Kyle's heart was reeling, he could swear he was having palpitations. Even though the glass separated them, Kyle pictured Cartman's boxy hands smashing through and encapsulating Kyle's neck.  
"I'm a lost cause," Cartman replied happily like he was announcing an engagement.  
 _'I'm a lost cause.'_ Stan would say that to Kyle all the time; shaking. A razor blade or pocket knife or whatever else he could find gripped tightly in his hand. His vacant eyes staring into the distance, not seeing Kyle's face at all.  
"Where's Stan?" asked Cartman, as if on cue, "I'm surprised he's not with you, attached to your hip like a benign tumor." Cartman didn't sound surprised at all, Kyle noticed.  
"Stan is missing," Kyle said thinly.  
"Unfortunate," Cartman's eyelids lowered halfway.  
"And I get the feeling that you're hiding something, Cartman. Something in my gut tells me you're involved."  
"Always go with your gut."  
"Excuse me?"  
Cartman tilted his head back and smiled slightly. "I said: Always go with your gut."  
Kyle leaned forward a little. Cartman mirrored him.  
"If I find out that Stan has been missing because of you…" Kyle hovered just in front of the glass. Cartman's face was only a few breaths away.  
"If I find out," Kyle repeated, "that you have been fucking with our lives somehow… I'll fucking kill you."  
"Oh-ho, really?" Cartman didn't seem intimidated at all, which infuriated Kyle. He always hated how arrogant and nonchalant Cartman could be.  
"I. Will. Break. Your. Fucking. Neck."  
"You're sweating, Kyle. Nervous?"  
"You will die, Cartman. That cell won't protect you from me-"  
"Man, your pores are huge. I can see everything! Don't Jews go to dermatologists?"  
"-fucking pay attention-"  
"How are your worms, by the way?"  
Kyle's breath caught in his throat. "You… motherfucker," Kyle's face turned beet red, "You motherfucker! What have you done to me?!"  
"Ha ha ha!" Cartman started banging his fists on the window, like a toddler. "WORMBOYWORMBOYWORMBOYWORMBOYWORM-"  
"What the fuck!" One of the guards grabbed Cartman's shoulders, but he wouldn't budge.  
"You'll never," Cartman scraped his nails against the glass, "ever," one of the nails popped, peeling all the way back and leaving a snail trail of blood, "find him. Nevernevernevernever…"  
A few more guards emerged and managed to lift him up.  
Cartman spastically shook his head. Gritted his teeth. Kyle stood there, numb. Cartman's eyes changed from brown to canary yellow in an instant.  
"And you'll NEVER kill me, Kyle! You think you're capable?! You're too fucking WEAK! You've ALWAYS been a weak piece of shit!"  
Kyle slumped back in the chair. He stared in shock as Cartman was being dragged off into the shadows. He fixated on the smear of blood that was left behind.  
"You're only alive because of fucking Kenny!" Cartman's cry echoed through the building, searing in and out of Kyle's mind and memories. 

…

The McCormick family never sat together for dinner anymore, except for Saturdays. Saturday was "family day," and Kenny was already in trouble for coming home later than usual. But only in trouble with his mother. No one else seemed to mind. Especially little Karen McCormick, who wasn't so little anymore. Peaking on the horizon of adolescence, Karen took everything to heart- hearing of Stan and Kyle's situation, she had burst into fresh tears.

Kenny was accused of making his sister upset, to which he retorted truthfully that you can't hide _everything_ from children.

"Do you think they'll find him, Kenny? Karen asked him, her fork wavered over the plate of brown rice and chicken.

"Eventually," he answered, scooping some vegetables for himself.

"Dead or alive," Stuart McCormick chimed in before taking a swig of Budweiser. Carol whacked him on the back of the head. "What? What? C'mon, it's true!"

Kenny turned to his little sister, who was wide-eyed with distress.

"Don't worry, Karen. Stan can take care of himself."

"Yeah," Stuart chimed again, "Stan can take care of himself, so you can take care of Kyle." He burped.

Kenny looked down at his plate. His cheeks flushed. "Heywhydon'twechangethesubject," he said all in one breath. He swallowed a carrot slice and then looked back up at his father. "I was thinking I'd like to hire Butters for the shop."

"The Stotch kid? He doesn't know shit about cars!"

"No, but he's willing to learn. Which is better than sitting around doing NOTHING, dad."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Whatever you think I mean," Kenny spat. His cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.

"Oh, geez, I wonder who that could be." Another whack on the head was delivered to Stuart.

Lo and behold, it was Kyle calling. Kenny exited into the living room and hit "answer."

"Hey, Kyle."

"Hey, dude."

"What's going on? Are you feeling better?" Kenny lazily walked around the living room. Fingered the hem of his tee shirt. Noticed a coffee stain.

"I'm fine. I think. Actually, I wanted to ask you something."

"What- what is it?"

"I was thinking about some things and… I remembered that time Stan and I were out at that Flogging Molly concert. And he was kind of buzzed…"

"Okay?"

"The day that Cartman almost killed me… Stan seemed to recall it differently than what you told me today."

"Um."

"And I don't know if it was because of the loud environment, or the alcohol, that I disregarded it, but it's bothering me now…"

"What did Stan say?" Kenny now held his shirt crumpled in his fist, stretching the fabric over his sunburnt shoulders.

"Stan told me that you guys were in his living room. That you were playing games and then you just zoned out and started drooling. And then you snapped back and said 'Kyle needs help'."

"Oh… he did?"

"Yeah. He did. Care to explain?"

"Kyle… it would take almost an eternity to explain…" Kenny saw Karen look over at him, concerned. Kenny frowned and turned away from her. "You can come over. I'll explain everything," he said quietly.

"You know what I think, Kenny?"

"Uh, what?"

"I think that you and Cartman planned a prank on me, and you backed out at the last minute."

"Oh, no, Kyle, that's not-"

"What the fuck else could it be?"

"I would never put any of my friends in danger! You should know that-"

"Ugh, I don't know who to trust anymore!" Kyle shouted and hung up.

Kenny felt the blare of the phone screen lighting back up on the side of his face. He brought it down and wiped away the oil with his thumb.

Karen peered out under the archway of the kitchen. Kenny slumped onto the couch.

"Are you okay, big brother?"

Kenny gave her a little half-smile. "I'm always okay when you're around, Karen."

…

 _June 4, 2017_

Kyle awoke to Sheila gently nudging him.

"Come on sweetie, today's the big day," she said softly.

"Ngh," Kyle started coughing. What felt like pounds of phlegm was nestled in his throat. "Too early," he croaked.

"No, just in time," Sheila said firmly. "I'll let you get your shower. Breakfast is almost ready."

Kyle sat up. He smelled the cigarette stench on his Duran Duran tee shirt. He prayed that his mother wouldn't notice. She had a good nose. Maybe she didn't want to notice.

Sheila patted him on the head, and gave him a kiss on the temple, "I am so proud of you, Kyle." She squeezed his shoulder and headed out, but not before turning around his computer chair to reveal Kyle's cap and gown, pressed and cleaned, ready to go.

"Don't forget your honors cords," she added.

…

Kyle entered the back entrance of the arena. The graduating class of 2017 was all rounded up there.

 _All except Stan,_ Kyle thought, rubbing his neck. It was sore again. The polyester gown irritated his skin.

A few people glanced at Kyle, but no one seemed to want to approach him.

 _If Kenny were here, he'd…_ Kyle's chest clenched. He didn't want to believe Kenny purposely tried to hurt him… _but… what other explanation is there…_

' _It's not supernatural. It's intuition. It's love.'_

Butters emerged from one of the bodily clusters, nudging Clyde into Token a bit too forcefully.

"Sorry!" He called back to them. "Hey, Kyle! How ya doin' buddy?"

"I'm… I'm okay, Butters. How are you?"

"You don't have to lie, Kyle. We know you're sad ( _everyone is all over everyone else's shit)_. It's okay to be sad."

Kyle did say anything. He didn't know whether or not to say 'thank you' or let Butters keep talking. Butters kept talking anyway:

"Kyle, I was thinking that we could walk together at the ceremony so you don't have to be alone."

Kyle again couldn't speak; he could only bring himself to nod slightly.

…

 _There are places I remember_

 _All my life, though some have changed_

 _Some forever not for better_

 _Some have gone and some remain_

 _All these places have their moments_

 _With lovers and friends I still can recall_

 _Some are dead and some are living_

 _In my life I've loved them all_

 _But of all these friends and lovers_

 _There is no one compares with you…_

The student choir swelled, the cadence of their voices twirled with the lyrics. Kyle always thought that The Beatles were a little overrated, but, he still appreciated the song. It was getting to him. Everything felt… final, for some reason.

When the song ended, the principal started his speech about hard work and dedication… bright futures… open doors… it all sounded like buzzing bees to Kyle.

"Supposed to be up here…" he heard.

 _Stan is supposed to be here…_

"No doubt surrounded by those who love him…"

 _I love him so much…_

"The class of 2017 Valedictorian: Kyle Broflovski!"

Kyle snapped his head up to see about a mass of students looking back at him. Butters nudged his arm slightly.

"I think they want you to give a speech, Kyle… oh, but don't feel like you have to or nothin'..."

Kyle looked all around at the families in their seats. He easily spotted his parents and Ike, all of them either giving a thumbs up or waving. Kyle stood up.

"I'll do it."

He shuffled along his row until he reached the aisle, then quickly walked past the sea of faces. Everyone in the stadium started applauding. Kyle saw Craig nod at him out of the corner of his eye.

When Kyle approached the podium, the principal shook his hand and gestured Kyle towards the microphone. The applause tore into silence.

"Um," he said, taken aback by the echo of his own weak voice reverberating in the air. "I haven't written anything for this. I kind of forgot."

A few polite laughs sounded throughout.

"But, I know I have a reputation for giving speeches on demand… or not on demand, so here it goes:

My best friend has been missing for about six weeks now. So a little over a month."

Kyle steadied his hands on the sides of the podium and continued:

"My birthday came and went this past week and it meant nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. Because… well, it actually used to mean a lot.

Stan and I had a tradition of going fishing at Stark's Pond the morning of my birthday. We'd get up as early as 6 am just to walk down the road. But I didn't mind. I didn't mind because we got to be together. And it was quiet. It would still be kind of dark outside and we would just sit on the dock and talk about whatever.

When my birthday came this year, I woke up at 6 am just to realize that it wasn't worth waking up.

I… I would give my life just to have those small moments back. Just to have my friend back.

But… this is graduation, so I guess I have to turn this into something positive, so…

When you leave this building today, think about all the people in your life that you care about, and tell them you care. Because all of this-"

He gestured to the ocean of white and green decor.

"All of this- grades and achievements, they matter, but, not when it comes to… Not when it comes to love.

What matters is the one person that makes all the shitty stuff in life worth it…

I hope that you guys will remember me, and when or if you think of me, remember to not take your loved ones for granted."

Kyle looked down, back up at his classmates, and back down again. He backed away from the podium.

Butters suddenly stood up and fist-bumped the air, "FUCK YEAH, KYLE!"

…

"I am so proud of you, bubbe," Sheila put an arm around her son.

"You're not upset that I swore? In front of hundreds of people?" Kyle asked, half-joking. He was relieved to be out of the gown and back into a shirt and jeans.

"Everyone loved it," Sharon Marsh pushed a plate of wafers in Kyle's direction. All of them: Sheila, Gerald, Ike, Randy, Sharon, and even Sparky encircled the dining room table. "You spoke your truth, Kyle. Not everyone is brave enough to do that," she added.

"Yeah, you really got Butters going," quipped Ike, taking a bite out of a blueberry muffin.

"And now he's probably grounded. They probably took away his diploma, haha." It was the first humorous thing Kyle had said in weeks. Ike snorted. Gerald gently poked Kyle's elbow.

"Well, it was a lovely ceremony," Sheila fiddle with her napkin. Everyone 'hmm'd' in agreement.

Kyle pushed his chair back, "I'm going to the bathroom." He gave Sparky a quick scratch behind the ear before the leaving the adults to continue conversing.

Instead of going to the bathroom, however, Kyle went for the stairs. He crept up as quietly as possible, then entered Stan's room.

It looked as if Stan was just in it. The bed wasn't even made. Kyle stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. Some clothes were strewn around his computer desk. Kyle saw the glimmer of his Star of David necklace among piles of scrap paper. He walked over and picked it up, let the chain slither between his fingers. He set it back down over _Mayakovsky's Revolver._

A small red journal caught his attention. Plain. No label. Kyle picked it up.

 _Should I even read this?_ Kyle turned it over and over in his hands. _There might be something in here that could help…_

Carefully, he opened to the first page.

There were mostly scribbles, absent-minded curls and dots. Sketches of Sparky. An extremely detailed sketch of a zipper.

Kyle continued flipping.

SpongeBob. Fish. Giraffes. More scribbles that looked like dirt clouds. A trash can with "#me" next to it.

Kyle rolled his eyes.

Bees. Worms.

 _Worms._

A poem:

 _The files of my mind are so cluttered_

 _Controlled but messy_

 _My cerebral secretary must be fired_

' _Welcome to Hell'_

 _Her long pink nails impatiently tap the large manilla folder with all of my thoughts_

' _No insurance'_

' _No benefits'_

' _Your mind is an oyster'_

 _Black hole, everything could be compressed into a .zip folder_

 _But my WinRAR trial has expired_

 _And I'm fucking cheap_

Kyle chuckled. Stan said weird things all the time, but sometimes he could be pretty funny. He continued turning the pages. More doodles. Cats. Ice cream. Another poem:

 _To,_

 _Rubber Ocean_

 _the lake flips and swallows me_

"Stan, what the hell?"

 _My father was a hard worker_

 _He wore suits like a fish wears scales_

 _The fish in his office (the other son)_

 _Circles around and around_

 _Pushing oxygen through its gills_

 _Pressing itself against the clear bottom_

 _He doesn't understand why he's there_

 _to swim_

Kyle shook his head. He thumbed through the graphite-stained pages until he saw a page with the title "Kyle." His breath hitched. The page was dated the day before Stan had proposed. The rest of the pages was blank for a small block of text just under "Kyle":

 _you are the tapestry, the fringe_

 _burnt sienna and crushed sunflower petals_

 _you make my heart a pillow_ _._

 _your taste is stitched there_

Kyle put a hand over his heart. _Oh, Stan. I don't really know what this means, but…_

Kyle closed the notebook. There was nothing that gave hints about where Stan might be, but he wanted the notebook regardless. He pulled out his phone.

 **Stan, please come home. Everyone misses you. I miss you.**

 **If you come back, we can start over again.**

 **Talk to you soon.**

The doorbell rang. Sparky barked. Kyle slid the book into his back pocket, his phone in the other pocket then turned to leave.

…

Kyle gingerly walked back down the stairs, trying to avoid creaking if possible. He watched Randy open the front door.

Two police officers stood on the porch. Kyle froze.

"Sir, are you the homeowner here?"

"Uh, yes?"

Sharon walked up the door as well, "can we help you, officers?"

"You're the parents of Stanley Marsh?"

Kyle felt his knees quivering. His sweating palm started to slide down the handrail.

"Yes, you found our son? Where is here?" Randy asked.

The officers exchanged brief glances. At the same time, they lowered their hats.

Kyle sunk unto the carpeted steps and gripped the banister. One of the officers looked up at him.

"Sir. Ma'am. We need you to come down to the Park County Coroner's Office to identify your son's body."


	4. Grim Sleeper

**A/N: Hi everyone, hope today finds you well. I haven't updated in a while because I updated previous chapters of this work, including adding some scenes and changing dialogue. It's also why this chapter is so short. Thank you so much to everyone who has read/commented. It's very appreciated! Anyway, here we go:**

 _I hate when the family's toothbrushes are leaning into each other like they're talking dirty_

" _Get in my bristles" "give me what they put in their mouths today"_

 _I don't want to share_

 _Get in my bristles_

 _grab me by the mouth, put your thumb in it like you would_

 _and gag me, split me_

 _like the spine of a book and find nothing because_

 _I've swallowed everything so you can't see_

-found in Stan Marsh's history notebook

(date unknown)

...

They followed the police car in silence. Randy drove. Sharon stared out the window. Kyle sat in the back and picked at the cloth seat. There was still a heart-shaped stain from Kenny spilling a raspberry smoothie when they were in the seventh grade. _Everything was simpler then. All of us were so different._ Kyle pulled his phone out and stared at the screen. His fingers twitched. He wanted to tell Kenny what was happening.

They couldn't be sure yet if it actually would be Stan that the police found. He wanted to hold on to the idea that it could be a mistake. It could be some other boy, but not Stan. Not his Stan.

Sheila had begged Kyle not to go with the Marsh's. She pulled at his arm on his way out the door like he had been drafted and was off to war. Leaving his mother like that hurt him but he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't go. The radio was on but at a very low volume. Mostly static noises were heard. And it was on seek mode. Music, commercial, static, commercial, music, static, static, static… no one bothered to stop it or shut it off. It reminded Kyle of his own brain.

Sharon's cell rang. "Hey Shelley, can we call you back in a little while?" Shelly had been instructed to stay put in case Stan ran away to her apartment in Indiana. Kyle could barely make out what she was saying on the other end, even though she was speaking quite loudly. Sharon's sighs and forlorn responses told Kyle that Shelley wasn't giving good new anyway. Sharon hung up. She didn't tell Shelley where they were going. It was probably for the best until they had the truth. Kyle put his phone away.

When they pulled up to the Coroner's, no one moved to get out of the station wagon. Kyle's stomach was in knots as he stared out at the building. It looked like it could be someone's house. Not a place for the dead.

Randy put an arm around the back of Sharon's seat and looked over at his wife, "whatever we see in there today, regardless if it's Stan's body or not, we have to remember that bodies and spirits are different. We have to try and get this over with." Kyle was feeling excluded until Randy glanced at him. He pulled the door handle.

…

"Before we do the actual visual part of the identification process, I need to ask you folks some questions about Stanley, okay?" A young man, who couldn't be more than 30, sat with them in a brown and red office. He had a notepad in front of him and was using a blue pen that had bite marks all over it. "Can you describe some of Stanley's physical attributes that would distinguish him from others?" Kyle couldn't believe what he was hearing. That someone could speak about Stan so professionally, so clinically. A subject on the dissection table. "Any birthmarks? Scars? Tattoos?"

"He has a paw print tattoo on his left wrist," volunteered Shannon.

"Yeah, I remember when he came home with that," said Randy. He turned to Kyle, "and you were the one that took him to get it."

Kyle couldn't think of a response that Stan would want him to say. The truth was that he wanted Kyle to give him the tattoo since it went so well the first time, but Kyle refused. He couldn't bring himself to burn Stan with a needle where his scars had made a home. So they went to an expo and had it done by an artist that was chipper and openly told Stan about pain therapy- one of the facets of this kind of therapy was tattooing instead of self-harming. Stan left very happy that day. Randy and Sharon were not happy about the small and harmless ink. They still didn't know about the whale tattoos on both of their thighs.

"Can you folks tell me anything else, please?"

"There's scarring on both of his arms," Kyle quietly replied. _If the roles were reversed, I'd be too easy to identify. Kidney transplant scar, check. Raccoon attack scars, check. Fish hook scar on the back of my head, check._ He wished it was him lying on a cold table in the next room instead of Stan. "There's a brown birthmark on his stomach, right above the belly button." _I've kissed that spot so many times…_

"His wisdom teeth are removed," Randy said.

"Okay," the coroner scribbled in his notepad, "Kyle, is it?" Kyle nodded. "You said Stanley has scarring. Do you know if they are from self-harm?"

Kyle swallowed. His chest tightened. "They are."

Randy and Sharon quickly turned their heads to Kyle. It was the first time they were hearing about this. Stan kept his outer damage well-hidden.

"Kyle, I need you to answer me honestly for these next two questions. It's important for this particular case." Kyle's heart pounded. "Over the course of your relationship, how often would Stanley self-harm?"

"It-It depended on how stressed he was. Every week was different. But if I have to give…" He glanced uneasily at Randy and Sharon, "If I have to give a numerical answer, it would have to be maybe two to three times a month. He stopped around this time last year though. We gave each other an ultimatum. I would quit smoking cigarettes if he stopped cutting. We found alternatives. I chewed gum, mostly. And he wore rubber bands on his arm. He snapped them when he had the urge. It worked. Both of us would slip up sometimes, Mostly me."

"And did Stanley ever talk about taking his own life?"

Kyle inhaled sharply. The question burrowed into his throat and flexed its claws, brought them down with a sickening slash.

"All the time."

…

None of them were ready. No one ever is.

He pulled the sheet back with dry, powdery hands.

Glazed over blue eyes. Shaggy black hair. Thin lips. He was on display, the hard reality in a showcase. There was no denying it was Stan.

 _My Stan…_

Sharon doubled over and almost fell to the floor before Randy caught her. Kyle stared into his glassy eyes. His mouth turned down in distress. The purple bruises and ripe lesions from where they said they cut the rope from his neck. He couldn't take it.

His body turned to the exit and ran. He ran past the other employees, the red walls, the somber and reflective art pieces, the pain. Kyle pushed open the front door and stumbled onto the front lawn, landing on his knees. He bent down, grabbed onto the grass, dug his fingers into the soil, and screamed.


	5. A Letter I Never Wanted to Write

_June 10, 2017_

(excerpt from the last page of Stan Marsh's journal, written in blue ink)

Dear Stan,

Stan.

Stan…

My mother has covered all the mirrors in our house.

Traditionally, when a family member passes, this is what Jews do so that we can focus on mourning. It's also to protect your spirit from getting trapped, or to stop wicked spirits from attacking yours. My family has never been that orthodox, but… you're a special case.

I don't want to address you so clinically like this.

How do I even go about this? I'm writing in _your_ journal. I feel like I'm soiling it. Like I'm violating you.

My mother has covered all the mirrors in the house because every time I look into one all I see is you- your nose, your eyes, your hair, your throat. Whenever my lips part, it's your voice that comes out. My mother has covered all the mirrors in the house because the image of you fades and all that's left is my guilty fucking face, the same face that I've had for my whole life but can't stand to see anymore. She covered the mirrors because I punched out one of them until my knuckles became raw and my reflection turned into a sickening mosaic of jagged and red-filmed pieces.

Your funeral is tomorrow and I don't think I can stand it. Babe, I haven't cried once since I saw you last…

I mean, since I saw your body last.

I thought: "It's over. It's done. He's gone."

But my body and my heart won't accept it. It feels like you're still around but you're not with me. My parents say that I can take as much time as I need to grieve. I don't want to grieve. I just want you back.

I am selfish. I am needy. And I can't mourn you. I refuse.

Your funeral is going to be an open casket. I'm sorry but I don't think I'll be able to approach you. To see you absolutely still, no breathing or smiling, or talking… I'm not strong enough, Stan. My heart is shattered just like that mirror.

My mother has covered all the mirrors in the house because she understands, I think, that I never have and never will love anyone the way that I love you.

If there is some kind of afterlife, or Kingdom of Clouds, I hope that you know that. Know that I am still in love with you.

Or at least you know it now.

If you were here, I'd take you and all of your demons, all the things that were hurting you. I'd change what I said. I would have said yes. I would say yes to you, every hour on the hour, for the rest of my life. I'd never want to kiss you goodbye again.

I will miss you everyday.

Kyle

P.S. I wish

I wish I was the one that was dead.


	6. Dead Kids

**A/N: I wish I could write these updates faster.**

 **I've been so touched by everyone that has read, commented, or voted. Thank you for your patience and involvement. Because of some life changes, things have been extremely hectic, but writing this on the side has helped.**

 **This chapter isn't very horror-centric, so I hope to ramp that up in forthcoming additions.**

 **Once again, thank you.**

 **Btw, High Jew Elf cosplay plus the Renaissance Festival was a fun combo, and I highly recommend it!**

 **...**

 **MARSH, Stanley**

 **It is with great sadness that the family of Stanley Marsh announces his sudden passing at the age of 17. Stan will be lovingly remembered by his parents, Randy and Sharon Marsh, and his elder sister Shelley. Stan will also be fondly remembered by his boyfriend, Kyle Broflovski.**

 **Stan was an exemplary student with an honors recognition in the English studies. He will be greatly missed by the faculty as well as his classmates.**

 **A Funeral Service in memory of Stan will be held at 10 am at the River Funeral Home, 333 Helel Drive, Park County with Rev. Maxi officiating. A celebration of Stan's life will be held at the McCormick household for immediate friends and family afterward.**

 **In lieu of flowers, please send a memorial donation to Colorado Pawz, a no-kill shelter in Denver.**

 **...**

 **May 26, 2012**

Stan climbed over the frame of his best friend's bedroom window in the dark. One foot dangled down to the floor before hoisting himself over with the other leg. A birthday gift wrapped loosely in a recycled newspaper was tucked between his elbow and hip.

He slid the smudged window pane behind him and squinted into the room. He expected to see the shape of Kyle entombed under a mountain of blankets. But he wasn't there. The 12-year old Stan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He fumbled around with the lamp on the nightstand, looking for a chain to pull. With a heavy click, a dull orange lit up the room. The mattress was devoid of any comforter or blankets. Only a gray fitted sheet was tucked around it.

"Kyle?" Stan whispered. The sound bounced harshly around the walls. The small, white alarm clock read 5:37 am in glaring, digital red font. It was still covered with Sharpie signatures in various colors, from all of the boys except for Cartman's, whose name had been furiously scribbled out. All of them had yearbooks. No one could remember why they all signed Kyle's alarm clock. Maybe just to fill some random blank space with their marks. He picked it up with his free hand and turned it slightly. Of course, his name was there, small and insecure, in blue ink. What he hadn't noticed before was a little red heart had been added to his name. Like his signature, the heart was faded. It had been there for a while. He didn't remember drawing it there.

Looking around the room again (he figured that Kyle might walk through the door at any moment, wrapped in blankets with a glass of water in his hand), Stan put the gift on the bed, pulled his phone out of his pajama pocket, and snapped a picture of it of this newfound heart by his name. He was lying to himself about not knowing why. He knew why. The thoughts started when Kyle got back together with Rebecca Cotswolds. It kept him up at night. Different voices in his brain constantly fought each other.

But all of it excited him. These new voices excited him the most.

He put the clock back down and threw the phone on the bed. Kyle's door was still shut. There was no sound of anyone coming up the stairs. No sounds at all throughout the house, except for Gerald's snoring.

Maybe Kyle was in Ike's room.

Stan walked around the bed, about to pass Kyle's closet, when he heard a familiar dialogue, very faintly, coming from behind the wooden sliding door:

...they gave me a receipt for the donut… I don't need a receipt for the donut. I give you money and you give me the donut, end of transaction…followed by Kyle giggling softly. Stan furrowed his brow, reaching for the closet door. He slid it halfway and poked his head in to see Kyle, swathed in a plethora of blankets and pillows, laptop open to a Mitch Hedburg video on YouTube, headphones in, staring up at Stan wide-eyed. He immediately ripped the headphones out.

"Stan?" Kyle's eyes looked like they were about to bulge over, a teenaged deer in headlights, but he managed to smile. Kyle didn't like surprises, but he seemed happy about this one. For a brief moment, Stan put his hand on his chest- his heart had fluttered a little. "Are you okay, Stan?"

Stan ripped his hand away. Straightened himself up. "Yeah, totally. Are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just-" he gestured to the laptop, "I couldn't sleep. So I'm doing this. You can watch with me if you want. I can start it over…"

"Actually, I," Stan pointed with his thumb to the gift he left on the bed. "I brought you a gift. You don't have to open it right now though."

"You got me something?"

"Of course, it's your birthday, dude."

"Oh… right."

"Are you sure you're okay, Kyle?"

Kyle nodded tightly, his lips pursed. He moved over and patted the space on the floor next to him. Stan obliged. He sat next to his red-headed companion, who threw a blanket over his lap. Their hands brushed.

"Dude, your hands are freezing!"

"Yeah. I don't know why I'm so cold…"

"You're literally covered in blankets."

Kyle just shrugged.

"Well… here." He loosely grabbed both of Kyle's hands, "My hands are warm."

Kyle tensed up, but he didn't draw back. He smiled sadly at Stan, who was exhaling hot breath inside Kyle's cupped hands.

"You don't have to do this, Stan."

"I want to," he replied, not even hesitating for a beat. Kyle yawned. His eyes teared up. "Did you, like, even sleep at all?"

"No, not really," said Kyle with a sigh, "I've actually been having a hard time sleeping."

He rested Kyle's hands on his lap. "Why?"

"Thinking too much, I guess."

"About what?"

"I… I don't know. A lot of stuff. I don't really know where to begin."

"Start from the beginning?"

"I… I just want to be distracted right now, Stan."

Stan thought about the heart next to his name. Wanted to ask about it so badly. Wanted to dig deeper. They were already holding hands… Not like they haven't before, but it was different this time. Confined in such a small space together, breathing each other's air.

Just one question was burning in Stan's throat.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you maybe just upset that Rebecca is moving away? You've just been, like, really funky lately."

Kyle leaned his head on the closet wall and looked up at the bottom of the shelf. "Yeah. It's one of the biggest reasons I've been 'funky' I guess. It sucks."

"It does," Stan loosened his fingers around their hands, "But Kyle… she doesn't seem to really give a fuck. Like, she's not nearly as upset as you are. She seems excited, even."

Kyle slouched forward. Closed the laptop. "That makes it hurt even worse. I shouldn't have given her a second chance."

"Maybe," said Stan, a little snappily. Kyle glanced at him. Even in the dark, Stan could make out the pained contours of his face. "I don't know," he added in a softer tone. "I just think that you're a little too forgiving sometimes."

"Ah, so you've noticed." He sounded drained. He sounded older than he actually was. There was silence for a few moments. Then: "I guess I should try and start getting over her now." He looked at Stan. Was this an invitation? Stan wanted it to be.

He leaned to the side, toward Kyle, ready to embrace him. His leg extended out, knocking over a fishing pole. Kyle put his arm out and blocked it before it could whack Stan's head.

"Shit! I'm sorry! That was loud…"

Kyle shrugged. He carefully laid the pole down between them. "It was an accident, you don't have to be sorry. I'm just glad it didn't fall on you."

"Thanks to you."

Their faces were only centimeters apart. Kyle shifted nervously.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah, Stan?"

"I wish you were as nice to yourself as you are to me."

"I'm working on it, Stan."

Suddenly, Stan pulled away. "Since that thing came falling down on us," he picked up the pole, "Why don't we go fishing at the pond? Maybe you could use some air?"

…

The low rattle of cicadas drifted over the two friends; sitting on the dock that jutted out into the water. Stan swung his legs back and forth, causing his lure to bob around like a drunk ballerina. His Phantogram tee shirt had holes around the armpits. One of the tell-tale signs of a growing Stan was his ripping of shirts every time he raised his arms. The same was happening to Kyle, but faster, and Sheila would consistently come home with longer shirts for him. Stan was too attached to his band tees. To him, everything, living or not, had a voice.

Kyle happily studied his gift: a hardcover compilation of all the Johnny the Homicidal Maniac comics. He flipped through the pages, admiring the art, staring too long at some of the more gory illustrations.

"If you drop that in the water, I'll push you in there after it," Stan looked over at his friend with a teasing smile.

"Doubt it," Kyle retorted in the same teasing tone. "But don't worry, I have an iron grip on this thing," he said, raising the book up a little, "I've been wanting this for forever."

"It was on your little "books I want to read" list on the cork board in your room. So I guess you can cross it off now."

Kyle blushed and looked back down at his book. Stan shifted, making the dock creak a little bit. He absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair. Kyle zoned in on one particular illustration. It took up the entire page. Black and white gore was somehow more intriguing to him than the fully fleshed out gore in the movies. This one had dissected dolls, and a contemplative Johnny staring out the window into the night sky:

 **Dear Die-ary,**

 **Today I stuffed some dolls full of dead rats I put in the blender.**

 **I'm wondering if, maybe, there really is something wrong with me.**

Kyle read the second sentence out loud.

"I wonder that too," Stan said quietly.

"What?"

"Not about you. Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me."

"What do you think is wrong with you?"

Stan couldn't respond. He couldn't think of how to tell Kyle how he was spending restless nights, scratching at arms, banging his head on walls, dragging scissors down his thighs. He wouldn't be able to look into Kyle's sweet face and admit all of this. Not today. Not on his birthday. Just a few years down the road, Kyle would be the one dabbing Vaseline on Stan's arms, all the while murmuring this was a really bad one, Stan.

(next time you feel like doing this call me immediately)

(i will kyle)

(you say you will but you don't

by the time i reach you

it's too late

i'm terrified that one day i'll just

find your body)

"It's okay, Stan. You can tell me when you're ready."

"I don't know if I ever want to tell you, Kyle."

Kyle tightened his mouth. He would have been offended if it weren't for Stan's solemn, almost protective tone. The lure stopped bobbing.

Kyle cleared his throat. "Are you still coming to the Bar Mitzvah?"

"Of course," Stan was instantly beaming, startling Kyle a bit, "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Kenny still wants to come too."

"Okay, good. It'll make me feel better if you guys are there."

"You're nervous?" Kyle just nodded and stared out over the water. Some of the trees closest to the water had been cut down and chiseled into thick, sharp points. Stan noticed them too. "They kind of look like teeth."

"That's a bit creepy, Stan."

Stan half-smiled and looked back down at the water. "Says the guy that's reading Johnny the Homicidal Maniac ."

"Touché."

After a few minutes of silence, Kyle put the book inside his backpack and stared at his feet, kicking slightly. He could never sit still. He was too pent up to force his body to stay solitary. Anxiety about his Bar Mitzvah was more overwhelming than he wanted to admit. He knew it would be filled family and neighbors asking him "how does it feel to be thirteen" over and over again. There would be people clustered in every corner of the house. A lot of chatter, all at once. So many sounds coming from so many mouths. Kyle's shoulders tensed up and became rigid. Above all else, he would have to get up in front of everyone and read from the Torah. His family barely spoke Hebrew at home, and it just wasn't catching on as much with him. He was trying, but the fear of fucking up ate away at him, no matter how much the Rabbi told him he was doing fine.

"You're grinding your teeth," looked over at his anxious friend.

"Huh?"

The fishing pole pulled into an arch. A frantic Stan stood up and started reeling.

"Don't reel so fast, Stan! You're gonna lose it!"

As if on cue, the hook emerged from the water. Fishless. Stan pouted. "God damn it."

"You panicked."

"Yeah, I think we've established that via the empty hook, Kyle."

Kyle shrugged, "how are you ever going to feed your family now, Stan?" He stuck out his tongue slightly.

Stan flipped him off. He stepped back to recast. Kyle looked out, expecting to see the hook plop back into the water, but instead, stiffened at the sudden impact of the hook colliding into the back of his head.

"Oh my God, Kyle! I am so so sorry, I am so sorry, oh my God." Stan was pacing around Kyle now.

Kyle blinked hard. His vision wavered in and out. Did the hook just hit my head? He reached up and grabbed for it. The hook felt like it was only entangled in his hair. He pulled. An instant, searing pain tore through his scalp. Kyle stood up and faced Stan, who was pale with guilt, the whites of his eyes glimmering like wet hard-boiled eggs.

"Is it stuck?" he asked. His voice was thin. Weak.

Kyle reached again. Yes. It was stuck. "Seems that way." Stay calm, stay calm. Don't freak out. Kyle looked at his fingers. The tips gleaned a sheer layer of bright blood.

Stan trembled. He started towards Kyle, "maybe I can get it out."

Kyle turned his back to Stan. "Just be careful," he cautioned. "I don't like that it's all attached to the pole still."

Gingerly, Stan meshed his fingers into Kyle's hair. He tried to bunch of the scalp and push the hook out one side. Kyle squirmed. "Okay, no! Please stop! Stop!"

"I almost got it, Kyle! Stay still."

"I can't! It fucking hurts!" Irritation continued to rise up through his belly as Stan continued, each tug of the skin bringing more pain. His spine twisted, elbow squared out, knocking Stan to the edge of the dock. Stan wobbled, tried to reach out to Kyle, but it was too late. Stan fell backward with a flat thwap! Into the chilly, unforgiving waters of Stark's Pond.

…

"Here Kyle, you're gonna need this," Stan's Uncle Jimbo pressed a glass of Irish whiskey into Kyle's shaking hand.

Stan sat across from him, shivering under a blanket embroidered with a stoic buck.

Jimbo disappeared into the back office, presumably to get a first aid kit. Kyle stared down into the glass with unease. His eyes burned from leftover tears. The boys had trekked over to his gun shop because Kyle- still attached to the fishing rod, refused to go to the hospital for fear of his mother finding out. Jimbo lived in an apartment with Ned above the store, and if there was anyone that could help with hunting-related injuries, it would be those two. They couldn't help but laugh when a sour-faced Kyle and a remorseful Stan showed up at their door, connected by a small, red fishing pole. They immediately cut the string and Stan drop-kicked it across the room.

After examining the scalp, Ned concluded that some of Kyle's hair needed to be cut off. Not too much, but just enough for the hook to not get tangled. Wouldn't be noticeable at all; especially after Kyle puts on a yarmulke. Snippets of curly red hair floated to the ground while Stan sulked, tearing himself up about how horrible of a friend he is. It's not like I'm dying, Stan.

Then came the hard part.

Jimbo pulled out bigger scissors. The blades were thicker, and the sight of them made Kyle squirm. "I'll try to make it quick, Kyle," he had said, "but you've got a treble hook in there, and two of the prongs are pretty deep. I have to try and cut the tips off.

"There isn't another way you can get them out?" Stan pleaded. He had a hand on Kyle's knee. There was no other way.

Kyle doubled over, crying, as Jimbo nearly tore through his skull. His ears rang. Stan tried so hard to talk him through it, but all he could hear through the shrill screeching that violated senses was _kyledogood_

 _Hold_

 _Breath_

 _Almost_

 _There_

 _Please_

Suddenly, the bloody hook was in front of Kyle's face. Bent. Severed. Stan looked like hell. Kyle imagined that he looked worse.

Afterward was when Jimbo gave him the whiskey. He didn't have numbing gel, and Kyle needed stitches.

"Back in Civil War times," Jimbo returned with a miniature first-aid kit, "amputees threw back some whiskey and bit down on the towel before the operation. You're just getting a few stitches, but I still think you deserve a drink." He ushered Stan to get off his rolling stool. The boy obeyed and stood by with Ned, watching intently. Neither of them said a word. Kyle solemnly looked down again at the auburn liquid. "I'm not putting these threads in your head unless you throw that down your hatch," Jimbo pushed.

Kyle looked over at Stan, who looked so small wrapped in the oversized hunting blanket.

"I'm not responsible for anything I say after drinking this," Kyle said to Jimbo.

"That's your prerogative, kid."

Another moment. Kyle chugged. His throat burned.

He didn't mind.

…

Sheila was all over them, fussing with Kyle's tie, slicking back Ike's hair. He was in a phase where he wanted it spiked all the time, even going as far as stealing Kyle's hair gel. But he stole everything from his brother: tee shirts, comics, anything. Kyle tended to be passive with Ike over things like that. He took it as a compliment.

Outside, heavy rain beat against the side of the synagogue. The pounding resonated in Kyle's ears. Everything seemed louder. It was the whiskey. There was too much of it in the glass, but he drank all of it, and now he was paying for it. He could've sworn he went cross-eyed at some point during the car ride there, and he was now rubbing his temples with cool hands. Nausea took over. It didn't help that the synagogue, like most buildings in South Park, was on uneven terrain, the floors uneven. Tilted. He pulled down on his yarmulke again even though it was pinned down and not going anywhere. It grazed his stitches. He flinched.

Busy with Ike's stubborn hair, Sheila was none the wiser to her other son's situation. He savored it, knowing these would be the last few minutes he would be alone with his thoughts.

He thought about Stan.

…

 _ **Sometimes when I look at you**_

 _ **I see a piano in the front yard of a tilted house stuffed with blood red-carnations spilling on the sides and over keys in some small town**_

 _ **maybe ours.**_

 _ **Kyle, I'm confused. Why do I see this with you? I wish you would just say something so I don't have to.**_

 _ **This hurts.**_

The card was nearly soaked in Stan's sweaty hand. Every word spit acid. He hated what he wrote. It was too weird. Too forward. Skinless.

Kenny was ransacking the buffet again. Some of the older aunts were all over him as he munched away, patting his shoulders with red, finely manicured hands. Not that Kyle wasn't getting a ton of attention either- he did so well at his reading. Didn't mess up once. Now they were at some out of town banquet hall where they lifted Kyle up over a circle of bodies. Everything and everyone was loud, and Stan sat on the sidelines, nursing a small plate of coleslaw at a table lined with blue and gold. He still felt guilty.

Kyle was good.

The room smelled of spice and melting candles seeping into frosting, the typical birthday smells.

He shoved the card in his suit pocket and headed for the bathroom. Amidst the chaos, Kyle caught a glimpse of Stan leaving. He pushed through everyone and followed him.

"Hey, Stan!" He ran a hand along the marble countertops while he walked to his friend, who had positioned himself over the very last sink. He gave Kyle a weak smile. "You okay?"

"Am I okay?" he replied softly.

He turned on the faucet and rubbed cold water in his eyes. "It's pretty hot in there."

"Yeah. Too many people, I guess."

"It's actually kinda nice. They're all here for you."

Kyle looked down at his toes and then back at Stan's reflection in the mirror with a smirk. "I think they're about to throw Kenny a Bar Mitzvah of his own." He put his back to the counter and leaned on it, rendering him eye level with Stan.

Stan laughed, "yeah, what the hell is even happening?"

"Kenny's a Jew now. Not by blood, but definitely by marriage because I guarantee they're going to try and set him up with one of my cousins." He crossed his arms. "But he went to Jewbilee with me that one time so I guess it counts."

"Oh, yeah. I remember that. I was so pissed that my parents wouldn't let us hang out."

"I was too, but it's whatever. It was a long time ago."

"My dad was like-" Stan put a finger under his nose like a mustache and strained to make his voice sound lower, " you can't just hang out with your buddy Kyle all the time."

Kyle wheezed, "Okay, no. That was a scary good impression, and you're not allowed to do that ever again."

Stan just nodded, laughing. "Sorry! But that's what he said though."

"I don't understand why."

Stan hesitated. "He said it was because people will think we're 'funny'."

"Funny?"

"Yeah. I didn't really understand what he meant then… but you can guess what it means."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. He shifted his weight a little. "Well… to be fair. Two people can literally be standing in a room together and people will be like 'omg I bet they're together'."

Uncomfortable silence. Stan rubbed his thumb on the lip of the sink. "How's your, um, head?"

"Oh," Kyle reached up and unpinned his yarmulke. He finger-combed some of the hair around the wound, "I need to clean it soon. But it's fine."

"It looks kinda weird in the mirror. With the one bald patch."

"Meh, it'll grow back. It was really convenient that it hit where it could be covered."

"It would have been more convenient if I didn't hit you at all."

Kyle shook his head and started pinning the blue yarmulke back to his hair. A few bobby pins sticking out of his mouth, he said, "It's not like you did it on purpose."

"I am literally going to feel bad for forever. We're best friends, I'm supposed to help you, not hurt you." Stan stepped in front of his friend, "do you need help?"

"No, I'm okay. If you reach up over my head people will think we're funny."

Stan rolled his eyes, "there's not even anyone in here. We're alone." Kyle patted the cap again before leaning back on the counter.

"Yeah. We should probably go… you should come dance with us, Stan."

"Uh, that's a no from me, dawg," Stan replied, "I don't even know those dances. I haven't known what the fuck has been happening since the ceremony." Kyle threw his head back and laughed, the bathroom light glowed down on him. "And you have cake on your face."

Kyle's hands immediately went to his cheeks, "where?"

"Under your jaw." Stan reached out to his face and gently wiped off the smidge of frosting. His ring finger accidentally rested on Kyle's lips. Neither of them moved. Stan expected the other one to draw back, like how he expected him to drawback when they held hands, but he didn't. "I wish you would just say it," Stan suddenly blurted.

"...what?" His face was soft under Stan's now shaking hand.

"Nothing. Nevermind," he pulled his hand away, but Kyle caught it at the wrist.

"What's going on with you, dude?" Concerned, Kyle pulled his arm in. Stan sharply inhaled with his nose and shook his head fast. A few tears welled up in his eyes. "Did something happen? You've been kinda funky too lately."

"No… nothing's happened. Well, no. I don't know."

"You don't want to tell me?"

"I feel stuck, Kyle."

"In regard to…?"

"It's hard to say."

Kyle slowly lowered Stan's arm. He knew it was the bad arm, and he felt bad for snatching it so suddenly. "Stan. Whatever you need to say, or whatever you need to do, you just need to do it. You'll feel better if you get it out of your system."

Out in the hall, the music swelled suddenly. It caught the both of them off-guard. Kyle squinted at the door before looking back at Stan, who then jolted up and pushed a warm, quick kiss on his lips. Kyle stood upright, speechless.

"I've been wanting to do that for a while," Stan said quietly.

More uncomfortable silence between them. Some whooping was heard from the hall. An ambulance outside.

"Did you… um, get it out of your system?"

"No. It's still there… Kyle?"

"Yes, Stan?"

"I… really, really like you. Like, a lot. And I kinda want to kiss you again."

Kyle opened his mouth to respond when Gerald swung the door open. Stan spun around and locked himself in the bathroom stall.

"Kyle? What are you doing?! Everyone is looking for you, come on!"

Kyle took one last look at Stan's dress shoes underneath the stall door before walking over to his father. He didn't know why he was hiding. They weren't really doing anything wrong, except, Stan wanted to kiss him again.

He wanted to say yes. He would have said yes.

...

It was a dark, foggy morning. The air was so thick that Kyle could only see four or five feet in front of him. Memories of Saturday (only two days ago!) he had been kissed and every moment since then, the sensation, the aftermath of experimentation still had a taste on his lips. He brought a finger to the bottom one, ran it along to the corners of his mouth as he walked. Softness and warmth. Actual warmth, for once. Startled deer bounced in different directions away from him. The bus stop started to manifest before him. He could make out the sign, the ditch next to the road that was filled with glimmering rainwater, and Stan. Just Stan. Alone.

Kyle stopped.

He considered turning on his heel and running away, but Stan noticed him, teetering with his feet on the gravel. They were too close not to notice each other.

"You're early," Stan said, monotone, blinking hard. He wasn't a morning person.

"So are you."

No response. Kyle thought back to the past two nights, wide awake, cruising his fingers along his mouth, wondering what was going to happen next. He went over the bullet points in his head. They could either a) forget it ever happened. But that could lead to several avenues of problems. What if they wanted to kiss again? Every social gathering would be filled with tension. What if Stan started dating someone? He would be jealous. He knew he would be jealous. Or there was b) stop being friends. No. No. He couldn't stand the thought. Going the rest of the school years only suffering passing glances in the hallway? Going to each other's graduation parties late and leave early? Going to their high school reunion with their wives, maybe husband even? (after all, a new branch of attraction that was peeking under the surface was just opened up) Seeing each other in the parking lot of Whole Foods, beer bellies abound, toting carts full of kids and exchanging pleasantries before Stan heads back to his red pick up truck and Kyle returns to his white Impala? No. He didn't want it. Couldn't stand it.

Or, there was c) be together. Maybe take things slowly at first, but ultimately be together. Date. Things that couples do. He wouldn't exactly know what couples do because of- Rebecca. Kyle immediately felt himself swell with guilt. He had completely forgotten about her. What would she even say?

He pulled out his phone to read their last messages:

 **9: 07 pm- Rebecca 3: I'm going to bed now. Don't stay up too late looking at memes ;)**

 **9:15 pm- Kyle: I'll do whatever I please, woman! And good night 3 Don't let the leukocytes bite!**

 **9:17 pm- Rebecca 3: Leukocytes are essential to the immune system. Why wouldn't I want them to bite?**

 **9: 20 pm- Kyle: I don't know. I'm tired and was trying to be witty and that's the first thing I thought that sounded like it would rhyme and be science based. Just ignore me lol**

 **9:21 pm- Rebecca 3: lol good night**

 **10:21 am- Kyle: Hi :)**

 **10:22 am- Kyle: How come you're not at school? :(**

 **2:27 pm- Kyle: I miss you.**

 **4:19 pm- Kyle: Are you still coming to my Bar Mitzvah?**

 **9:20 pm- Kyle: Rebecca, I'm scared about you moving away.**

That was the last message. He hadn't heard a word from her in a few days. Not even a happy birthday.

"Kyle?"

Kyle looked up from his phone to see Stan's quizzical expression, "Yeah, Stan?"

"How are the stitches?"

"Oh," Kyle brought a hand up to the back of his head. The stitches were still covered by the yarmulke. "It's okay. Kind of weird to sleep on though."

"I'm sorry," Stan looked down at the gravel. He sucked in his cheeks, "do you hate me?"

Kyle almost laughed, "no, dude! It was an accident!"

"What about the other thing?"

"What do you mean about 'the other thing'?"

"Do you hate me for that?" The sky was starting to lighten up a little, the fog somewhat easier to sift through. Kyle took a step closer, staring into the side of Stan's small and troubled face. He put his hands in his pockets and opened his mouth to say 'no', but Stan continued: "I'm sorry that I threw that on you so randomly. I understand-" his voice broke, "I understand if you don't want to be friends anymore. It wasn't fair to you."

Kyle looked down at his boots. Looked at the deep cracks in the street, potholes the shapes of continents. "So, what are you saying, Stan? It was just random? You don't… you don't actually like me?"

They looked at each other. "Kyle-"

In the distance, a familiar voice shouted at them: "HEY, FELLAS!"

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Kyle quickly glanced behind his shoulder. Butters was still far away enough that he wouldn't be able to hear them if they talked softly. He turned to Stan. "What? Hurry, tell me…"

Stan looked around again before leaning in slightly closer, "Kyle, I would-" Kenny suddenly appeared behind Stan. He could tell by Kyle's eyes darting quickly to the side and then back to Stan's face with urgency. Carefully, softly, sincerely, he finished: "I would hold your hand if I could."

Kyle sucked in his breath. Butters clapped his hand down on Kyle's bony shoulder, and took his place where Cartman used to be. Kenny stood on his own, He peered at the rest of them, but said nothing. Kyle feared that he may have heard what Stan said, but didn't want to ask. If Kenny wasn't saying anything, he felt, then neither should he. In the distance, the sounds of the grumbling bus was heard barrelling down the road.

A, b, or c. Kyle. A, b, or c.

He felt like he needed to make a decision there and now. In this moment, frozen by the side of the road, the four of them entrapped in a metaphorical snowglobe, about to be shaken by the grubby and callused hands of Time, he had to choose. A, b, or c.

Life isn't a multiple choice test, he thought suddenly. Another stronger voice in his mind took over: There's no set equation to anything, ever. It's all in the blank white space around the text.

The bus door squeaked open and they filed in, Butters last, of course- he always let everyone else go in first. Kyle slid in next to Stan. Usually, Kenny would sit next to or near them, but strangely, he sulked to the very back of the bus and put his head down. Stan had his head down too, pressed against the seat in front of them, his hands at each side of his legs. The bus bumped along the road. Flashing fog lights lit up the corn fields; bright, dark, bright, dark. No wonder Kenny had sequestered himself in the back. He was prone to seizures.

"I would hold your hand if I could."

The words swallowed him.

Kyle moved his hand slightly. He hoped it wouldn't be too cold. Fingertips grazed over soft knuckles- Stan twitched slightly- his hand loosely wrapped around the other's.

Even in the darkness, Kyle could tell that Stan was smiling.

...

 **June 2017 - The Night Before Stan's Funeral**

Ashes fell to the floor, gray snowflakes, and nestled into the carpet. He picked at the bandage around his knuckles.

Kyle repeatedly pressed the lit cigarette into the underside of his arm. The same area where Stan had the paw print tattoo. It hurt, but it wasn't enough.

I need to wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up…

He was sitting on the floor next to his bed, cross-legged and slumped forward. Shivers ran up and down his arms. His legs shook.

He brought the cigarette to his chapped lips. His forearm was burnt to shit. He wished he could light himself on fire altogether.

Everything was cold now.

…

"Bubbe, what are you doing awake?" Sheila caught her son rifling through the linen closet. She turned on the hallway light. He was wearing his winter jacket.

He glanced over at his mother with bloodshot eyes. She noticed his sunken cheeks.

"I'm getting another blanket," he mumbled, "maybe two."

"Are you really that cold?" She put her thumb and index finger over the thermostat, "it's 70 degrees in here… but I can turn the A/C down if you want."

"No… I don't want to make everyone else uncomfortable."

"I hope you're not getting sick."

"I might be. I don't know."

"Do you want me to make you something?"

"No, Ma, it's two in the morning. It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

That question again… "I am." He reached up to the top shelf and pulled down an old Lion King blanket.

"You haven't been sleeping at all, have you?"

Closing his arms around the blanket, he looked down at the green carpet and sighed. "No… I can't. I've tried."

"I'm really worried about you, Kyle." She put her hand on his head and finger-combed his hair, "we're all worried for you."

"I can't stop thinking about Stan," he clutched the blanket tighter to his chest. "I want to die."

Sheila grabbed her son and pulled him into a hug.

…

"We shouldn't be drinking coffee this early," Sheila poured the dark roast into a tall mug for Kyle, which read ' Good Morning! This is God, I will be handling your problems today !', "but this bag is about to expire anyway."

Kyle said nothing. He just drank.

"Uh, don't you want cream?"

"No cream," he said firmly.

"I don't know how both you and your father can just guzzle it black like that."

Kyle shrugged, "This doesn't apply to dad, but black coffee and cigarettes are kind of an aesthetic. Maybe that's why."

Sheila sat across from him at their dining room table with her own smaller mug. Years of family dinners had left fork scratches, some rings from when Kyle and Ike would forget to use coasters. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

"Sorry."

They slowly raised their cups to their mouths at the same time and drank. Sheila cleared her throat.

"You know, I was terrified when you were born," she said.

"Terrified? Of what?"

"You were so small and I was petrified that the slightest thing would break you. I was a young mom and you're my first baby, it's never notterrifying." She took another sip and made a face, "Ugh, bitter." Another ounce of coconut milk was poured.

"Even the months leading up to your birth was just littered with nightmares about anything and everything going wrong," she continued, "When you finally did come, I was a wreck. For the first month or so, my emotions were so out of whack. It wasn't post-partum or anything like that. But whenever you cried, I cried. But you cried a lot and I was convinced that I wasn't feeding you enough or keeping you warm enough…

Even just a trip to the grocery store was so stressful. Every time, without fail, there were always people who wanted to look at your or touch your hair- and it took so much effort to just tell people to leave us alone. No one wants complete strangers touching their baby, but some people have no sense of boundaries. I was paranoid that someone was going to snatch you that if I needed to reach out in the freezer aisle, I would physically take you out of the cart and hold you close. I probably looked insane but I wanted to protect you.

I wanted to protect you from everything. I never wanted you to have to feel anything besides happiness.

But as you got older, the more I realized that I couldn't.

I've had to let you discover sadness… anger… love. Grief. All on your own. All I could do was back off and just make sure that you have a safe place to come back to.

You are your own man now, Kyle. But I wish I could just… wave a wand and take all of this pain away from you."

Kyle was gripping his mug now. "Ma… I love you."

"I love you too, bubbe," she wiped away at her under eyes. "Just please know that you're not alone. I haven't seen you cry at all the past week, and that's okay, you do what you need to do. But you've got me so worried, especially after what happened with the mirror…"

"I know, I'm sorry about that. I'll get you another one… I'm just… I don't know. I just feel numb. Like it hasn't settled in yet."

"That's normal, Kyle. It's okay."

"I don't know if I can go to his funeral," he stared down into the coffee.

"You should at least try, Kyle. We'll all be there with you. Everyone."

He licked his lips and took another long drink. It burned his throat. He didn't mind.

Suddenly, Sheila got off the chair and started fumbling in one of the kitchen drawers until she pulled out a large white envelope, already opened. She walked back over to Kyle with it. "You got this a few weeks ago," she said, "but I was too upset to give it to you. Your father wanted me to wait before confronting you."

"What is it?"

"A welcome package. From the University of Central Florida."

…

Kyle climbed over the frame of his best friend's window in the dark. His feet hit the floor right away. If he could sleep at all, he wanted to sleep in Stan's bed. But looking at it, he felt it was too big for just him. Without turning on any lights, he found the old mahogany dresser.

Jeans, boxers, socks, his favorite Butcher Babies tee- all arranged on his side of the bed. A flattened ghost.

Kyle slid under the covers. The scent of citrus on the pillow overtook him and he rubbed his cheek against it like a desperate, lonely dog. Seeing the clothes laid out made him feel like he was next to a shell, but he wanted it. Wanted to take it all in again, close his eyes and feel where Stan's body used to be, where he would reach out and run his hand over his belly button and up his chest.

He pulled out his phone. The last messages he sent made him sick to his stomach. He scrolled up and up until the words blurred and finally stopped sometime in early April:

 **3:01 pm - Kyle: My mom just commented that my face smells like bleach… lol**

 **3:03 pm - Stan: RIP**

 **3:03 pm - Kyle: Whaddyer dewin'**

 **3:04 pm - Stan: Poopin'**

 **3:06 pm - Kyle: Oh, neat. Push real hard for me**

 **3:06 pm - Stan: Lol don't have to, it's pretty runny**

 **3:07 pm - Kyle: God damn it lol**

 **5:37 pm - Stan: Hey**

 **5:42 pm - Kyle: Wut**

 **5:43 pm - Stan: I love you.**

 **5:43 pm - Kyle: I love you toooOOOooooOOoooo**

 **5:44 pm - Stan: :) ya cute**

 **5:45 pm - Kyle: Noooooooooo**

 **8:31 pm - Stan: What was even the thought process behind that**

 **8:33 pm - Kyle: Fur what?**

 **8:35 pm - Stan: Oh wait sorry, i thought i was replying to our snapchat convo lol**

 **8:36 pm - Kyle: Oh lol. Yeah idk why Ike wanted to jump off the roof like that. That trampoline is so small. There was def no thought process at all**

He stopped there. It was too painful. But he wanted to hear his voice again. Just his voice, uninterrupted by his own grating responses.

He pressed "call."

It went straight to voicemail. Not like he expected an answer.

"Hi, this is Stan Marsh. Sorry I can't get to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm available. Thank you!"

So formal. He had been applying for jobs.

Kyle hung up. Called again. "Hi, this is Stan…" He listened, snuggled up to the pillow. Pulled the comforter tighter.

Hung up. Called again. "Hi, this is Stan…"

Kyle's fingers slowly opened up as he finally started drifting off, and dreamed that Stan was holding him, breathing onto his hands, keeping them warm.


	7. Monstrance Clock

_**October 29, 2016**_

The mirror had toothpaste splatters all over it. Black and white face paint and non-prescription contacts were bundled in a small Party City bag on the marble counter. A breeze whistled through the open window. The windchime that Sharon Marsh had hung from the bathroom ceiling rattled in pleasant, oaky tones. Both Stan and Kyle were confused as to why she chose the bathroom for a windchime, especially since it was made of layered brass and tiny wooden spoons. It would make more sense in a kitchen. But no one dared confront her about it. There were more important things.

A painted wood panel that read BLESS THIS HOME in blue calligraphy that was nailed above the vanity-style mirror was illuminated by the yellowing light bulbs. Almost all the bathrooms in South Park looked like this- the 70s having unprotected, unnatural sex with a western ranch. Floors creaked or had holes in them. Depending on whose house you were in, the tub would be stained orange from well water.

The carpeting in the bathroom was long enough so that Kyle could squeeze it between his toes even though he had socks on. Black socks. His whole outfit was black. Soon it would be covered in black, satin robes.

He gripped the frame of the sink and sighed at this reflection in the dirtied mirror. Today had been hard. Harder than most other days.

But he made sure that the handprint from his face had faded before escaping to Stan's house.

The Marsh family was out for the night, doing one of those 'Survive the Night' camps at a "haunted" farm a few miles away. Kyle couldn't imagine forking over $100 just to have to deal with Randy overreacting to every single thing all night. Stan couldn't either, and that's why he was downstairs, going through the family costume box. Stan had his heart set on the Frida Kahlo costume, but it was too big, and his father had done it the year before anyway.

They were due in an hour for Token's Halloween party.

Kyle opted to dress as Papa Emeritus Ⅲ from the band Ghost, hence the face paint and contacts. He glanced over at the gold-encrusted Pope hat, stitched with a "G" that also doubled as an upside-down cross. Kyle looked up at the BLESS THIS HOME sign, bemused. He didn't think God would exactly strike him down just then. If he was going to do it, he would have done it a long god damn time ago.

Unpacking the Party City bag, he called out to Stan: "Hey, babe?"

"Yeah?"

"Should I do the contacts first or the make-up first?"

A pause, and then "I think you should do the contacts first instead of second 'cause you might irritate your eyes if you get make-up residue on the contacts."

"Oh, yeah," Kyle looked at his now seemingly dumb reflection in the mirror. The answer was so obvious. "Good thinking. I definitely don't want to go fucking blind today."

"Yeah, no… ooh, yes!" It sounded like Stan found a costume.

Carefully, Kyle put in the bright blue contacts, one pupil much smaller than the other. In the dim lighting, he looked like a completely different person. A demon.

"Well, that's the point I suppose," he muttered to himself. He opened up the face paint tray with a crack and used the tiny plastic brush to start outlining black around his eyes. He painted over his eyebrows, drawing them at a downward angle, giving him a permanently angry glare for the night.

"Hey Kyle," Stan's voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the stairs, "did you eat yet?"

Kyle paused. "Are you we not eating at Token's?"

"I mean, yeah, but it's probably just going to be finger food. Like, rice krispie treats that look like mummies 'n shit."

Kyle laughed. Token's mom was such a Pinterest addict and he could very much envision it. "I'm not hungry. But you go ahead and eat if you are."

"When's the last time you ate though?"

 _This again…_

"I had a bagel this morning," Kyle replied, turning on the faucet and putting his hands under the warm water. It felt good. He opened his mouth to lip sync Stan's next words, because he had heard them so many times before:

"That's not healthy, Kyle."

Truthfully, neither of them were a perfect picture of health, but they continually jabbed at each other: _I'm about to rip that cigarette out of your mouth, Kyle_ or _Remember what we said, Stan? Ice cubes. Put an ice cube on your wrist instead._

Stan rummaged around in the kitchen cabinets for a bit before trekking upstairs to Kyle, who was drying his hands. He stood in the open bathroom doorway. "Do you want this?" Stan held up a box of Suddenly Pasta.

Kyle dramatically jumped back and gasped, clutching his hand over his heart.

"What?!" Stan asked, wide-eyed.

"It scared me," Kyle said, grinning, "It was just so… _sudden."_

"You're actually the worst," Stan rolled his eyes with a smile, "Your eye make-up looks good so far."

"Really? Thank you. You look really fucking cute, by the way." He did. Stan was dressed as Alex from _A Clockwork Orange_. Everything from the cap to the white leotard and the pelvic piece, a full-on Droog. The look really suited him, even though Stan was the complete opposite of the character he was dressed up as. "You should kiss me now, Stan, before I put the bottom half of the face on."

Stan rolled his eyes again before putting the spooky box of Suddenly Pasta on the counter, next to the Pope hat. He put his arms on Kyle's shoulders and wrapped him in a kiss.

"The contacts look cool too," Stan said when they pulled apart.

Kyle pushed him back against the counter, ran a hand over Stan's chest, "do you want to hear a _really heavy motherfucker_?" He asked in a terrible Swedish accent, trying to capture Papa's stage presence from the last time they saw Ghost in concert.

"Oh, stop it," Stan said, laughing, "we don't have time to, uh, "monster mash" right now, dude- whoa, what the fuck happened to your wrist?"

 _Fuck…_ Kyle forgot that his jacket sleeve had covered it earlier. Now he was in a tee shirt and the purple and red marks, signs of someone gripping him too tightly, was in plain view. "It's nothing," Kyle said. He started kissing Stan's neck and collarbone.

"Kyle, stop." Stan held Kyle's wrist up to his face. Kyle regarded him with a leveled gaze. He started sweating a little. "Did your dad do this to you?" Stan asked quietly in the tone of a concerned brother and the expression of a vengeful lover.

"Sometimes we have good days," was all Kyle could spit out.

Stan ran three fingers gently over the vein on the bottom of his boyfriend's wrist, "Those good days seem to be far and few between."

"It… it has been getting worse," Kyle admitted, "but only because I've started sticking up for myself."

"I'm so worried about you, Kyle."

"Please don't. Just take care of yourself, please."

"Your dad is fucked up."

"I know."

Stan leaned back a little. "Would you rather just stay home tonight? I don't think anyone will notice if we blow this party off."

"No, no, we can still go."

"It's okay if you're not feeling up to it though."

"I think it would help me actually if we went. It'll be a nice distraction."

Stan frowned, "What did you guys fight about this time?"

Kyle sighed. He wiped away at some of the paint that got on Stan's cheek. "I told him that I don't want to go to law school."

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah, I just wanted to get it over with."

"Did you tell him you want to do marine biology instead?"

Kyle scoffed, "No, he was so fucking adamant about the fucking law school thing that I couldn't get a word in about anything else. He just fucking flipped."

"I'm going to kill him."

"No, Stan, it's okay. It won't be much longer now." He stepped back against the towel rack, felt the fabric brush against the back of his arms. "I'll be fine. We'll be fine."

"I love you, Kyle."

"I love you too, Stan."

They smiled weakly at each other.

"Well," said Stan, grabbing the pasta box, "you're going to eat. I don't care if we're going to be late. Not that it takes long anyway, but-"

"Stan?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Just… for just being here."

"Well, I live here, Kyle."

"You know what I mean."

Stan just smiled again. He crossed over the threshold between the bathroom and hallway before turning around to face Kyle, "You should really consider moving in with us. You know how cozy the basement is… we can stay down there. It'll be kind of like having our own place."

"My parents would never allow it. They'd send a SWAT team after me."

"What about when you turn 18? It won't be long now."

Behind the contacts, Kyle's eyes lit up a little, "Maybe." He bit his lip. "Actually, yes. I would like that a lot."

"We'll just do everything backward," said Stan, "We'll move in together, have kids, and _then_ get married."

"Or we could move in together, have kids, get divorced, and then get married," Kyle played along.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Stan laughed. He looked at Kyle one last time before heading back downstairs.

Kyle picked up the plastic brush again. Filling in the shape around his eyes, he quietly sang to himself: _Come together, together as one. Come together, for Lucifer's son…_

 **A/N: Hi, another short chapter. I just wanted to have a little Halloween bit because it's my favorite holiday. And I don't know why Kyle has so many problems but I promise it'll start getting better for him.**

 **For both of them.**


	8. Life Eternal

**A/N: So I haven't updated since Halloween and I hate myself for it. School just took over my life and I didn't have time to work on this, which really sucked because I love writing this story and I'm so jazzed by those of you who are reading, favoriting, or commenting on the text.  
This bit is some filler and I apologize for that, but there's more to come soon!  
Love,  
Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay**

"Can you hear me say your name forever?  
Can you see me longing for you forever?"

-GHOST, "Life Eternal"

 **November 9, 2008**

The lengthy, ice cold glass dagger stared at him. It intimidated him. Kenny McCormick karate chopped the fucker out of his path. Thick ice struck against the bony surface of his hand and spun hard to the ground, plunking a barrel shape void into the sleet. He hated icicles or anything else that rhymed with "sickle."  
His foot slipped off the tree branch when Eric Cartman's piercing voice shot up through the crisp winter air, "Watch what the fuck you're doing, asshole! That could have hit me!"  
"It would have served you right, dick!" Kenny gripped the section above him and spread his knees farther apart to gain a better stance. His heart was thumping fast. Despite the chill, he was toiling from stress. Normally, he could mount and jump from buildings with ease- but buildings are so much more different. Buildings are man-made structures. Nature has its own idea of structure. One of beauty interwoven with chaos. He was nervous, yes, ascending this ultra large tree, but he wasn't about to let Cartman know. "It didn't even land near you, so shut your whore mouth!"  
Kenny eyed his little orange parka, strangled in the branches a few feet away. Cartman, to show how much stronger his throwing arm was becoming, had thrown Kenny's coat so high up, it became caught in the branches, and they had nothing else to throw up there to chuck it out.  
From a nearby sidewalk, Stan Marsh saw Cartman standing alone, howling profanities to the sky. Convinced that he had ultimately lost it, he approached with caution, hands stuck solidly in his coat pockets.  
"What are you doing?" he asked, trying his best to sound neither very interested nor too accusatory.  
"Kenny's being an asshole," replied Cartman, not even looking at Stan.  
"I'm being an asshole?" Kenny screeched, jarring Stan to look up at his shivering friend, clad in cheap snow pants and boots, and a raggedy Def Leppard shirt with stained armpits, "You're a god damn cyst on the ass of the world, Cartman!"  
Stan frowned, "you can get cysts on your ass?"  
"I don't know," Cartman shrugged, "Ah, Kenny, the word you're looking for is a boil. You get boils on your ass."  
"Whatever," Kenny muttered.  
"And you're the one who's more likely to get boils because you don't fucking shower."  
"Fuck you!" Kenny spat, firing a sizable lump directly at Cartman. The ball of saliva broke over his face.  
"Oh, sick!" Cartman hastily wiped the splatter away, gagging as he did. "Stan, did you fucking see that? I probably have the god damn plague now, gross!"  
"Well, that'll be fucking fitting because you're a rat!" Kenny retorted.  
"Ay!"  
"Um, Kenny," Stan interjected, "I think you should stop. You're too high up… it's not worth it."  
"It's the only coat I have."  
He continued to shuffle along the branch, closer to the tree trunk.  
"You can have my coat," Stan unbuttoned himself, "I'll just say I lost it and my parents will get me a new one."  
Kenny stopped for a moment to consider it.  
"Oh, how charitable of you, Stan," Cartman squealed in the mocking tone of a shady housewife.  
Kenny retracted and placed a foot on an adjacent, thinner branch.  
"Thanks but no thanks, dude. I got this."  
From below, Stan groaned and Cartman continued to rattle off derogatory comments about poor people.  
A crow settled on the branch in front of Kenny.  
They glared at each other. The fowl glowed in the pleasant winter sunlight, its feathers showcasing dark tones of blue.  
"Go away," Kenny whispered. It didn't obey him. It cocked its head at the 10-year-old with inquisitive amber eyes. Kenny glanced at his friends. They didn't seem to notice the bird. Not that they would care.  
But he wondered if it was really there, or if it was one of the crows he saw when he went to the "nightmare place."  
He stopped thinking about it. Get the coat. Fuck that bird. And fuck Cartman. He wanted to pummel him when he got back.  
Steadying himself by clutching the branch above him with both hands, he kicked out his other foot. Now he held onto the branch above and behind him, his body in an uncomfortable slash position.  
"Kenny, don't!" Stan called out.  
"What? I'm fine."  
"You look like you're stuck."  
"I'm fine!" Kenny repeated. But his shoulder blades were stiff and his hips buckled.  
"Yeah, we totally believe you," Cartman quipped.  
"Oh, shut up Cartman! This is your fault." snapped Stan. He looked up into the gnarled tree. "Kenny, I'm coming up after you!"  
"Stan, no-"  
Stan was at the base of the tree, jumping up for the closest branch. Kenny tried to move again.  
He noticed that the crow left. He didn't even hear it fly away.  
His foot slipped. Trying to regain stability, and in a flash of a blind frenzy, he bit down heavy on his tongue.  
"Fuck!"  
The metallic quality of blood oozed over the bottom of his mouth and he let go.  
"Kenny, no!"  
The boys watched, horrified, stuck as wax models, as Kenny fell backward screaming.  
The shriek tore away when the back of his neck struck a large branch, breaking it in two. His lifeless body struck another branch on the way before falling into the soft bed of snow, next to the cylinder grave of the icicle.  
Stan backed up against the tree, arms splayed out, stared with his mouth open.  
Cartman approached the mangled Kenny. Blood dribbled across the edge of his lip. Eyes, pale and blue, still open.

"You killed him…" Stan's weakening voice fluttered and crumbled around the two.  
Cartman sunk to his knees beside Kenny's twitching body, his bulbous face suffused with shame, shock- taking in the truth. Outside the timbers, the roads were mute. No one saw besides them, and now they were cornered. In death, he had them trapped.  
Stan followed, collapsing to his knees beside the now still body.  
"I didn't mean to," Cartman said faintly. Slumped over, shoulders seemingly larger. Stan ran a palm over Kenny's eyelids.  
"Okay," Stan removed his coat.  
"Okay? Just okay?"  
"What else do you want me to say?" he drew his coat over Kenny's chest as if he were tucking him into bed. A final rest.  
"It wasn't my fault, Stan!"  
"Yes, it was," Stan leveled his glowering gaze at who he now looked at as a former friend, "You have to own up to this."  
Cartman wrung his hands, "What do you mean?"  
Stan suddenly stood, bare arms trembling, "I'm telling Kyle. And then we're calling the police.  
"Don't fucking tell Kyle!"  
"I'm going," Stan huffed. He shifted toward the way of the roadway before a tight grip clamped his wrist. Cartman spun him around and clutched Stan's neck with the other hand.  
"I'll kill you too, Stan," he growled between gritted teeth.  
Nausea overtook Stan, swelling in his breast and mouth, gagging under the abnormally strong grasp and scratchy texture of the yellow gloves. Dizzy and stupefied, he grasped at Cartman's arms, trying to unclasp his neck.  
"Y-You're insane," Stan rasped in between gags. The grip tightened.  
"I'm not getting in trouble for this. We're leaving him here," Cartman shook the boy angrily, "And if anyone asks us, we don't know what happened, okay? We were at the other park playing. And if you tell anyone anything different, including Kyle, I'll fucking kill you. I'll kill you both."  
Tears cascaded down Stan's reddening cheeks, making beads that coiled over Cartman's fingers. His vision dissolved in and out, superimposed with fizzing pink and yellow blotches, head turning to styrofoam. He peeked over at Kenny's corpse cradled in the snow, and a staggering sense of anger, a revulsion of an injustice rose in him. With the measure of energy he had left, he raised a knee and delivered a striking blow to his assaulter's abdomen, underneath the ribs. He could just barely feel the bone of the tip of his boot. Cartman's fingers loosened as he doubled in pain. Both of them fell to the ground, coughing.  
Stan propped himself on his elbows and crawled toward the neighborhood, leaving behind a heaving Cartman.  
"You've… always… been a… bully… Cartman," Stan managed to say in between raspy breaths, "And now, and now, you're a… murderer."  
No reply from the other, folded in a fetal position next to Kenny, but Stan knew he was heard.  
With a groan, Stan hoisted himself up and ran away, kicking up snow with each forceful step.  
He couldn't follow. He hurt too much.  
This is it. It's all over.  
A noise- breaking wet celery resounded behind him. Cartman jolted and swung over.  
Kenny was moving again.  
But it wasn't normal.  
There were lumps moving under his skin, following each other in synchronicity akin to railway routes. His legs flopped crazily, and his chest swelled. Cartman frantically scooted back. To him, Kenny looked like a rag doll or a glitchy video game character. Or both.  
Kenny's face turned toward the sky. He blinked once. Twice. With a long exhale, he sat up, looked at Stan's coat, confused, fingering the red collar.  
"How come I'm not in my bed?" He whispered to himself. Cartman gasped. Kenny's eyes snapped to him, "Eric?"  
Cartman just shook his head, embracing himself.  
"Uh, I'm sorry… I fell asleep."  
Cartman continued to stare, fixing to say something, but the only that came out was a petrified squeak. Kenny turned to stand up but instantly recoiled. Spine, pinned with handfuls of invisible daggers, separating it, one vertebra at a time.  
"Fuck! That fucking hurts!"  
It wasn't usually this way. To die, yes. But to host the sensation of his undoing the next day was newborn and terrifying. He tried to steady his breathing until the pain subsided and looked at Cartman with wet eyes.  
"Eric, what happened? What did you see?"

…

It didn't take long for Stan to reach Kyle's house. As his feet pounded on the alkaline concrete, arms pumping, he couldn't recall why he was rushing. Now he was standing out in air, his mind dull.  
Sheila came out, encased in a weighty poncho, rubbing her hands. She recognized the boy standing on the sidewalk, looking dumbstruck.  
"Hello, Stanley."  
"What?"  
"I said 'hello'," she walked out to the mailbox and opened the small metal door.  
"Oh, hi," he said delicately.  
She eyed him before tugging at a small bundle of business envelopes. "Ugh, bills and more bills. Don't ever grow up, Stan," she gestured at him with the stack in her large but friendly hands.  
"Okay."  
She closed the mailbox and looked at him again, "Where's your coat, bubbe?"  
Stan shrugged, "I guess I just stepped out. I guess… I guess I didn't need it."  
"Ah. Well, it's nice to step out for some air now and then," she started back toward the house, "You can come in if you want. Kyle just got back from grocery shopping with his father."  
"Oh, okay. Sure. Yes."  
He followed Sheila into the house, his mind trying hopelessly to remember… remember why he couldn't.

…

 **June 8, 2017**

"I love this one," Kenny said, holding out a typed note. He was squatting cross-legged on Stan's bed while Kyle lay on the floor, sifting through photographs for a picture board.  
"Which one?"  
" _My father was a hard worker/he wore suits like a fish wears scales_."  
"Oh," Kyle glanced up at him, gripping a few photos of them playing _Guitar Hero._ "He must've liked it too if he actually typed it." He placed them down on the teal carpet and dug into the cardboard box further, dragging out sheets of paper lined in crayon. "Holy crap."  
"What?"  
"It's that project that we did in the fourth grade. The one about South Park being a hotspot for hiding alcohol during the Prohibition… Look at the little beer bottle you drew," he said, holding up the art for Kenny to see and be exposed to the same nostalgia and sadness.  
"Oh, yeah, I remember that. I can't believe he kept that."  
"I can," Kyle smiled sadly. "He kept everything."  
He continued shuffling through old photos while Kenny silently read Stan's poetry.  
"It's neat how he wrote from your point of view."  
"Huh? My point of view?"  
"It's really obvious that this is about you… _the other son_? Stan doesn't have a brother."  
"Who's to say it's not about you? You have a brother, too."  
"My dad doesn't wear suits like a fish wears scales. That's definitely your dad. My dad wears jumpsuits like… giraffes… wear… I don't know. I can't word things. I'm not Stan."  
Kyle sighed. His thumb grazed over a picture of the four of them at the carnival- at least, it was four, but Cartman was ripped away, riding on the carousel. In the picture, they were all laughing, but Kenny was smiling peacefully in the backdrop.  
"You say things only when it's necessary," he said, "Most people talk just to hear themselves talk. There's actual meaning behind everything you say. I've always liked that about you."  
Kenny put the paper aside, shifting, taking in the sudden compliment and feeling as though he didn't deserve it.  
"I think people just assume I'm quiet because I have nothing to contribute."  
Kyle leaned over and handed Kenny the photo. He took it with a timid hand.  
"I've never thought that. Still water runs deep, Ken."

Tearing himself away from the urge to climb down and pin him, Kenny looked away, adjusting his ponytail, making it a tighter so that the blond tendrils tugged his scalp. Pain as a distraction. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle was checking his phone, absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck.  
 _I'm a bad person._

A break to the silence: "I have to get going," Kyle announced.  
 _Wait, we were having a moment…_

"Where?"  
"To the airport… to pick up Wendy."  
"Testaburger?"  
"Yes."  
"Wow… That's a name I haven't heard in a while. Um, is she staying with you?"  
"Oh, no. She's staying with Stan's parents," Kyle stood and looked around the floor, at all the carnage of memories.  
"That sounds like it's going to be an awkward car ride… do you need me to come?"  
"It's okay. I really don't mind. I actually invited her but then my parents said she couldn't stay at our house... so yeah, it was a whole big thing."  
"You didn't tell me."  
"You've got enough on your plate."  
"So do you! Your plate is fucking broken, Kyle."  
Kyle pursed his lips, "I'm just… trying to do the right things."  
"By putting all the stress on yourself?"  
"No, I… I don't know," Kyle stammered. Quickly, he snatched his keys up from the dresser, "I really need to get going. You can pick out some photos… but leave room in case Wendy has some too."  
Kenny sighed, "Okay, Kyle. Drive safe."  
Tugging on his left Converse, the 18-year-old Kyle with unwashed hair, a Trevor Something tee, a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and a heavy heart, gave one last friendly glance before turning around and heading out. The back of his shirt read "DIE WITH YOU" in bold, black lettering.  
"I hope it doesn't come to that," Kenny uttered quietly to himself, the phrase branded in his brain. "I hope to fucking God it doesn't come to that." 


	9. Killing Me

"In the end I'll be the one who's killing me.

It's killing me. It's killing me. It's killing me."

- _The Cleansing,_ BUTCHER BABIES

 **January 2017**

Kenny pulled up to the bus stop in a cloud of ice and dirt with a blue pickup truck that had a squealing belt and a rusting hood. The thing was old and ugly; smelled of McDonald's, sex, and weed (not even the "black ice" air freshener could save it) but it was reliable and that was all he needed. Taking girls out was different though. He tried to clean it up when that happened, but as soon they saw that monstrosity from 1995, it became instantly evident that all he needed, at the most, was fifteen minutes of their time. And those minutes contained no eye contact or kissing.

They were suspicious of him. His mind was always somewhere else. With someone else.

 _Girls: they know everything,_ he mused with a half-smile, staring at the only boy at the bus stop who hadn't noticed that someone had pulled up. His headphones were in and his face was craned over his phone. Dressed in all black- the Phantogram hoodie, basketball shorts, decrepit Adidas; except for his hat. The hat was red and blue, as always, it had stretched out with his head. This morning was especially stingingly cold and bitter, but he didn't so much as shiver.

Kenny rolled down his window and yelled: "Hey!"

Startled, Stan fell back a little. Realizing who it was, he took out his headphones.

"Hey, Kenny!" he grinned, "Long time, no see."

"Yeah… How are you?"

"I'm great, doing great." A lie. "How are you?"

"Good!" Another lie. "Where's your mensch on a bench?"

Stan laughed while wrapping the earbuds around his phone, "I'm gonna start calling him that now, thanks. Kyle's sick."

"Oh, that sucks," Kenny tried not to sound overly concerned, "I heard that the flu is making the rounds."

"It's not-" Stan started to say, shoving his phone in his back pocket, "It's not the flu."

Kenny shrugged, "Well, okay. Whatever. You wanna ride to school or something?"

"Um, sure. If it's okay with you."

"I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't. Get in."

"Okay. Thanks, Ken."

"Sure," he watched as Stan crossed over the front of the truck and opened the passenger door. "Don't worry about the stuff on the floor."

The black flooring was covered in old receipts, pop bottles, gas station coffee cups and various other kinds of wadded up trash that no one would care to know about.

"Oh, it's okay," Stan hoisted himself up into the seat, went to put his backpack on the floor, hesitated, then elected to keep it on his lap.

"So…" said Kenny, shifting gears while Stan fumbled with the seatbelt, "What's with the fuckboy outfit?"

"Huh?"

"A hoodie with basketball shorts? That's fuckboy culture right there. Stop stealing my culture"

Stan laughed, "Oops."

"I'm serious," but he was laughing too, doing his best to drive around the larger potholes. The last thing he needed was to have another tire pop off.

"You're gonna have to take that up with Kyle, these are his shorts."

"No wonder they look so long on you."

"Shut up, I pulled them up as much as I could."

He looked out the window at the passing cornfields, wondering how lost he could get if he walked through them long enough. Maybe he could lay down there. Maybe no one would come looking for him if he went missing. The hissing static of Kenny's radio interrupted the intrusive thought: "(Don't Fear) The Reaper."

 _All our times have come_

 _Here but now they're gone_

 _Seasons don't fear the reaper_

 _Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain, we can be like they are_

 _Come on baby, don't fear the reaper…_

Repeatedly, Kenny brought his palm down on the dashboard to clear the static. As if he had the power to. After swerving around another pothole, it cleared into crisp sound and Kenny placed his hand back on the wheel.

He cleared his throat, "So, what's wrong with Kyle?"

Stan took a deep breath but said nothing for a few seconds. Kenny wondered at what point Stan would finally just admit that he knew. Admit that he knew and punch him square in the face, spit on him, call him a homewrecker or a dick or whatever and demand that he never so much as look at Kyle again. Instead, Stan wrapped his arms around his backpack and sighed.

"If I tell you, you can't tell anyone else," he said.

"Stan, I don't _know_ anyone else. Just you guys. And I barely see you."

"I just don't want to embarrass Kyle. He's going through a lot."

"Anything I can do to help?" He swerved around another pothole, spraying gravel all behind him.

"Not really… It's just… his anxiety is so bad right now. Like, his chest pains are almost unbearable and he can't sleep. I was up with him pretty much all night."

"Christ, that sounds like a nightmare."

"He's been getting those, too."

"Any idea why?"

"Well, he's got anxiety already, but it's like, amplified because he's trying to quit smoking and I can see how much pain he's in… it just sucks."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay… it just feels like I'm dating a completely different person. He's been so… angry."

"Dude, quitting is hard. I can't say I blame him."

"I really can't either. He's finally sleeping now."

"What, did you give him melatonin or something?"

"No, but that's a good idea," Stan looked out the window again as they rode into town. He wasn't about to go into the gory details with Kenny about how he had to cup a hand over Kyle's mouth while he went down on him to keep him from being too loud. The Broflvoski's didn't know that the boys were in Kyle's room all night, and that wasn't the way they wanted to be found out. At one point he told Kyle to _shut up_ and it only made him louder.

Kenny saw the look on Stan's face, secretively voyeuristic, and decided to leave it, "Nevermind, I don't wanna know."

Stan smirked at him.

After a moment of silence, driving past Tweek Bros. and the South Park Mall, Stan spoke up again: "I think he's stressed out about it being senior year, too. I mean, I understand the stress, but I really just want to get this the fuck over with. I'm sick of high school."

"You could just drop out like me!"

"Shit, I might."

Kenny laughed, "No, don't. You only have a few more months left. It'll go by fast."

"I hope so," Stan scratched at his knees, "And he really doesn't have anything to worry about. He's going to be successful in whatever he does…"

"What does he even want to do?"

"Well… he _says_ he doesn't know. Everyone expects him to be a lawyer but I _know_ he wants to be a scientist. Like, I've seen the applications."

"I'll admit, I thought Kyle was going to go to law school too."

"He doesn't want to be a lawyer because he thinks it made his dad scummy."

"Dude, his dad was probably already scummy before he even became a lawyer."

"Word."

The radio faded into a Carly Simon song and Kenny turned it up a little.

Stan cleared his throat, "So, anything new with you? Are you seeing anyone?"

"I can't really have a relationship right now."

"Oh."

Kenny shrugged, "No one's really worth my time. I'm too busy with the shop anyway."

"How's it going there?"

"It's insane," Kenny replied, "It's the same cars over and over again. Old cars. Old cars that aren't worth putting any more money into but people do it anyway. I replaced this guy's transmission last month and now I'm doing his fuel pump."

"Wow…"

"But it pays the bills, so I can't really complain. Sometimes Karen even works at the front desk after school. I mean, I don't actually make her work or anything. I make her do her homework. It's hard for her to concentrate at our house… it gets kinda loud there."

"Yeah…"

"But I really don't want to get into that… what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Kyle's going to college… what about you?"

"Oh. I haven't decided yet. I don't know what I really want to do yet."

They finally pulled up in front of Park County High School and Kenny shifted into park. "Well, you can always come work with me, Toolshed."

Reaching for the door handle, Stan laughed, "Okay, okay, I'll think about it."

"Oh, and, tell Kyle that I said hi."

"Why don't you text him and tell him yourself?"

"I doubt that he wants to hear from me."

"Of course he does. We miss you, dude." Stan leaned over and hugged a rigid Kenny, who patted Stan gingerly on the shoulder. "Okay, I gotta go. Thanks for the ride, Ken!"

"No problem. See you around."

Stan jumped out, slammed the door, and gave one last wave before bolting toward the double doors of the school. Kenny examined all his former classmates that were hanging around outside from the safety of his truck. They all seemed so foreign to him now, part of a world that he never felt like he belonged in. Some of them glanced up at him.

He opened the glove compartment and grabbed a joint, lighting it with one of several dozen lighters strewn across the chariot. It didn't take long for him to be surrounded by smoke.

A familiar blonde walked up and tapped on his window. He rolled the window down to see Bebe Stevens, hair askew in a messy bun, winged eyeliner, and striking red lipstick.

"You're just gonna hog all that for yourself?" she asked teasingly.

"You're right, sharing is caring," he said, passing it to her. He watched as her lips curled around it with the same face that Stan had when he was thinking about the way he put Kyle to sleep. "You don't really want to go to school today, do you?"

"Nah, not really."

"Cool," he took the joint back from her, "Get in."

…

 **Journal entry by Stan Marsh**

 **(date unknown)**

 **(Additional notes: bottom left corner saturated with blood stains. Presented to Private Investigator June 2017)**

 **(Detective notes: This journal entry appears to be much more fragmented than Marsh's other entries. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I'm curious to know if this is a reflection of his deteriorating mental state)**

 _Breathe…_

 _Blood on the concrete_

 _Livid and shaking_

 _Smash the lights_

 _Forsaken and betrayed_

 _Take me_

 _A hand-less clock_

 _Painted green_

 _Brown broken bells_

 _Clouds of tar_

 _Mist to coal_

 _Gravel sky_

 _To take a doll and cut it down_

 _The stuff was sewed up but fluff was all over the blue counter_

 _Sometimes I ask my mind to bring the dream back_


	10. Heart Heart Head

_**A/N:**_ _Hey, I would like to say thank you for sticking around and supporting this story. It means the world to me..._

 _I've always been an introverted person who is guarded, wary of letting people in; let alone see what I write. I'm slowly learning how to openly be myself, even if it means facing criticism or getting hurt at some point._

 _Feeling hurt is a necessary part of life- it humanizes us, and we can't avoid it no matter how hard we may try. I'm not condoning that we should dwell on pain, but rather, don't push away the feeling before learning why you feel the way that you do. Experience it and grow because of it. The more you push it away, the worse it becomes, and then you're left as a shell._

 _That's where I was before I started writing this fic. I was a void, actively numbing myself to whatever pain tried to come my way until I was almost empty. Starting this fic was my last ditch effort to wake up; write through the pain of dealing with things (some of which are similar to what's happening in this book), and learn to be in the moment again. The fact that I get to do it through South Park characters, to me, is an amazing feeling. I love the show and I love this fandom._

 _But I digress, so I won't bear my guts onto y'all anymore._

 _Reading what you have commented has filled my heart with insurmountable joy that I can't begin to describe. Just the fact that people are even reading this blows my mind._

 _So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

 _Love,_

 _Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay_

…

 **Eric,**

 **You'll probably try to have me killed once you read this letter, but I don't care. You took it too far this time. If that were even possible. I know you'll aim to push further.**

 **Stan's body is here, but something in my gut tells me that a sinister presence is here, and there's more to this than just a corpse. You're behind everything, aren't you?**

 **The atmosphere has changed.**

 **I've been seeing spirits everywhere I go. Some spirits I haven't seen in years. But I've yet to see Stan's, which is strange because I feel as though I should.**

 **You've been fucking with things.**

 **You've been fucking with us like a puppet master, safe inside your crazy cell.**

 **I should have never told you about me and where I come from.**

 **If I had known you would take advantage of it, I would have killed you right then and there by that tree.**

 **But I felt sorry for you. You didn't understand what you were seeing and I gave you pity though you didn't deserve it.**

 **Pity is often a privileged feeling… you feel pity for those less fortunate than you. Yet somehow** _ **I**_ **, the poor kid with the fucked up family, felt sorry for** _ **you.**_

 **You have no idea what you're doing. You have to be cautious when you get involved with demonic entities. Or just not get involved at all. I was born into all that mess, but you… you just inserted yourself into a world you have no right being in.**

 **They're going to get tired of you. These creatures need strong hosts and once they drain you, they'll move on to others.**

 **I'm going to find out what really happened to Stan, and when I do, however many feet of cinder block is keeping you sheltered won't stop me from coming for you. Consider your days numbered, asshole.**

 **I'm done feeling sorry for you.**

 **Kenny**

It wasn't until after he sent it that he figured any mail to inmates would be read before it was actually delivered, but the content was so crazy, he supposed they would dismiss it as two loonies that don't have anything better to write each other about.

The worst part was that whoever would be assigned to read that letter would know about Stan. A tragedy like his was bound to be dealt out like a deck of playing cards, shuffled into the hands of the media for them to pick and choose which cards they wanted to play.

Flowers and balloons piled onto the Marsh's lawn. Flowers were left for Kyle too, but he couldn't look at them. Day by day, the petals turned inward, brown, dried out, left for dead.

One morning when he went over to the Broflovski house, there was a small, Raggedy Andy doll with a noose around its neck and a note that read: "Homos burn in Hell." With shaking hands, he picked it up from the doorstep and threw it into the street, knowing eventually someone would run it over. He never told Kyle.

Sending this letter to Cartman was the coward's way of confronting the issue and Kenny knew it. He also knew some of this was _his fault_. But the thought of coming out saying everything that needed to be said outright terrified him; he didn't feel as if he were strong enough or smart enough to articulate in person. Hell, he didn't think he did it well in the letter either.

The best thing he knew- the only thing he knew- was how to kill.

…

 **June 10, 2017**

 **The Morning of Stan's Funeral**

 **5:13 a.m.**

 _Kyle…_

The whisper caressed his neck and traveled up his jawline.

 _Kyle…_

Grazing his ear, it caused him to shudder.

"Stan, pick up the phone," he mumbled while coming to, reaching out to turn on the bedside lamp.

He still wore the ring.

He wished he could tell people that he got engaged. He wished that every time he looked down, he wasn't reminded that he was an asshole. All the parents knew what happened because he had to give a full report to the police, and they continually reminded him that it wasn't his fault. Stan is an adult and he made a decision, they said. Kyle felt like he was swallowing acid. He knew it was the sick part of Stan's brain that made that decision, not Stan. The real Stan, who lit up a room every time he walked in, that's who he really was. Everyone loved him.

The Real Stan, he reminded everyone who asked about it, The Real Stan Would Have Fought.

Kyle opened his eyes, reached over the Butcher Babies shirt, and turned on the lamp. The clothes were still there, slightly tousled from his movement. He had only slept for about an hour and his phone had Stan's contact information lit up on the screen. He locked it and pushed it away.

At some point during his dreaming, he imagined Stan picking up the phone and telling him he was okay, he had just run away to Las Vegas or Ann Arbor or Dallas and hated him. But he was okay. Okay would be better than dead.

The corner of the fitted sheet had become loose during Kyle's tossing and turning. He went to pull it back over the mattress but a dark spot peeked out. Gingerly, he pulled the sheet back to reveal more. Blood stains. Tons of it. Some darker than others and each one had a different shape.

Kyle slapped a hand over his mouth, _Stan…_

All the times he didn't know about was freshly displayed for him. It made him nauseous.

And Stan wasn't there to be confronted about it. Stan wasn't there to be held, to be talked to softly, to be kissed on the head. _Not unless I just crawl into the coffin with him._

For Kyle, it was hard to know what was a nightmare and what was real life anymore.

He reached into his cistern of memories and reeled in a particularly fuzzy one. Parts of it were blocked out, not from time, but from trauma.

(you deserve to be here just as much as anyone else stan

probably even more so than other people)

Kyle had found Stan in his bathroom, on the floor, curled around the base of the toilet, unconscious. When Kyle moved him onto his back, he saw the arm. The oval cut with blood seeping into the tile grout. Stan's face was a shocking pale, as were his lips.

But he was breathing. Not very strongly, but breathing.

(o god thisisit thisisit he's gonna bleed out and be gone this time o god o god stan don't leave me)

Stan's foot twitched a little. His eyes opened. He saw Kyle's red face, bloated with tears, and tried to get up with no success.

He told Kyle later on that it was a new blade- clean but sharper than anything he had used in the past. _Real quick,_ he told himself, _I'll just do a quick one._

It was fast, but he had placed too much pressure and sliced off too much skin, revealing the thin, white tissue underneath. He could see inside himself and it made him sick. The area filled with blood; convinced that he would actually bleed out this time, Stan started hyperventilating. He ran it under cold water but the blood kept coming.

(ok ok o k don't panic)

He became dizzy and wobbled backward, his breath even more frantic.

He didn't even feel it when he blacked out, fell against the side of the tub, and collapsed by the toilet.

(is this how it's gonna be when i die)

Kyle helped Stan get up. He put an arm around him and put him in his bed.

"It sounds like there's sand pouring out of my ears," Stan said quietly.

Not exactly a stranger to passing out and waking up with static or screeching in his ears, all Kyle said was "I'm sorry." He laid his head on Stan's chest and listened to his fluttering heartbeat become steady. He wished he could hear his heartbeat now.

He sat back up and looked at Stan, "Just keep breathing. You'll be okay."

Stan just looked up at the ceiling. He couldn't look at the way Kyle was looking at him. Of course, Kyle read into it for what it was.

"That was way too close this time, Stan-"

"-you know you would be better off without me."

(o god not this again, you know what stan, sometimes i)

"That's not true and you know it," Kyle said sternly. Though he wondered if it was the other way around. If somehow, someway, he was making Stan like this.

(no no)

"You can do better than me. You deserve better."

"No offense, but you don't get to tell me what I deserve. And you certainly don't get to tell me who to love."

Silence.

Kyle continued: "I love you, Stan. But this," he put a hand on Stan's arm, being careful not to touch the wound, "This isn't you."

"Yes, it is Kyle. I'm depressed all the fucking time."

"Stan… it's something that you _have._ It's not _who you are."_

Silence again.

"When you look at me," Kyle said, "Do you just see my anxiety?"

"No, I see my boyfriend."

"Exactly. It's the same for me. I don't look at you and see depression. I see _you,_ Stan. I see my boyfriend, my best friend. Gifted and smart, funny, kind, and selfless." He wrapped his hand in his own and kissed it and cupped it in his own, keeping the fingers warm. "We can fight this together. Whatever it takes to survive. I know you can fight this."

Stan blinked slowly like a tired cat, looking at Kyle with blurred vision. A calming flare enticed him, and he acknowledged it with a grimace. He knew it was the dopamine taking over- the relief of doing the thing you're addicted to and getting it over with.

"I'm sorry, Kyle."

Usually, Kyle would ask him why he was apologizing, but he knew that Stan just wanted to be reassured.

(dont press just understand)

"You don't have to apologize, Stan. I know you're hurting. And I'm not going to leave your side."

Minutes later, Stan fell asleep. The wound had stopped bleeding rather quickly; Kyle wondered if his body had gotten used to it, but quickly dismissed the idea of normalizing it, even on a biology level.

He looked around the carpet and saw the box cutter tossed at an angle. He picked it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Later on, he would dispose of it, along with anything else sharp that he found in the bedroom. He laid back down next to a sleeping Stan, put an arm around his waist and pulled him closer, kissed his forehead.

"Whatever it takes," he said to himself.

Gripping on Stan's clothes, in the present with memory peeking in an out of his mind, he whispered over and over again:

(my faultmy fault myfault my fault my fucking fault i fucked up i lost him i didnt try hard enough i should have known)

"It's all my fault…"

…

 _I am a harried cardboard person._

 _I want too much_

 _I say too much_

 _I feel too much_

 _But I'm flat._

-found on a sticky note in Stan Marsh's dresser drawer (March 3, 2015)

…

Kyle climbed into his own window to see a familiar figure bunched up on his bed.

At the sound of his brother tumbling in, Ike immediately sat up, hair askew, and squinted at him.

"Where the fuck were you?" he asked hoarsely.

The image of Stan's blood-stained mattress was burned into his brain, "Nowhere. I forgot my cigarettes," he said, looking around on his desk, "What the fuck are you doing in my bed?"

Ike just shrugged, "Are you gonna leave again?"

"Yeah, there's no way I can go to sleep," he scooped up the familiar white and teal package, "I'm going for a walk. I'll see you in an hour or so."

Tossing the sheets over, Ike grumbled: "I'm coming with you."

"No, no, stay here and sleep. It's too dark out there."

"So? With your pale ass around I'm sure we'll see just fine. You're a goddamn night light."

He rose and pulled on Terence and Philip slippers that used to belong to Kyle. In what little illumination they had, Kyle could also tell that he had on his Duran Duran shirt, but he wasn't about to say anything.

Ike was the only one who still talked Kyle like he was his brother and not a fragile, glass dove like everyone else was at the moment. Good intentions were abounding, but he loved Ike's realness.

"Hey, Ike?"

"What?"

"Thanks for being cool."

"Uh, you're welcome?"

"You know what I mean, dude. Don't act like you don't."

Ike joined his brother at the window, "Well, I… you know/"

"I know. And I wanted you to know that I know."

Ike rolled his eyes and smiled; they both let out an exhale before climbing out of the window.

When it's dark in South Park, it's the most extreme dark with hardly any streetlights and the sky black. Kyle had dark thoughts that involved him tripping as soon as a car came and his head falling prey to the tire. He pushed it out of his mind be never stopped walking at night or in the early morning.

Some nights, the cloudless nights, you could see all the stars. No light pollution, just endless silver dots. Those were the best nights.

In the past, the three of them: Kyle, Stan, and Kenny would climb on the McCormick's roof and gaze at them, trying their best to find constellations (Kyle always found the most), or make-up new ones (Kenny always found the phallic ones), try to find shapes they could name after themselves or someone else (Stan saw one that looked like a square with dog ears and named it Sparky).

Even with his brother walking beside him, Kyle caught himself look up at them, thinking: (i want to go over the stars).

Getting closer to 6 am, and the two brothers watched as the sun slowly rose, casting their shadows in front of them. The woods around Stark's Pond had grown rapidly since they were kids. It was the same woods Kenny had died in when he was a kid, but no one except him and the inmate knew; the last person he wanted to know.

Over the years, the town added more and more to the already uneven terrain, creating gardens and hiking trails, a small town that was trying too hard.

"Something is bothering me about all this," Ike said suddenly.

"What _isn't_ there to be bothered by?" Kyle replied, silently wishing that the conversation wasn't happening. That none of this was happening.

"Why… Why did it take them so long to find Stan?"

"The woods are pretty big now…"

"Yeah but still… five weeks though? Something isn't adding up."

Kyle swallowed hard, looked down at his toes for a moment before the smell of pine overtook him.

"Sorry," Ike quietly said.

"It's okay," Kyle felt his shoulders tense up, and he lit a cigarette, the smell of it disturbing the atmosphere of the birches and weeping willows.

"I wish you would quit," Ike blurted, "You breathe in those things more than actual air now."

"I'm trying… it's not easy." He told Ike this every time.

One of the paths bore a large, wooden sign before it started, blaring red lettering:

 **THINGS TO KNOW BEFORE HIKING THE RIVER TRAIL**

 **Rugged terrain- high degree of difficulty**

 **4 miles in length- average time: 2 ½ hours**

 **No cell phone service- tell someone where you're going**

 **Numerous low areas- you will get muddy**

 **Carry your own drinking water**

 **Poison ivy grows along the trail**

 **BE SAFE - HAVE FUN**

Underneath, a smaller sign:

 **PORTIONS OF TRAIL ARE UNDER WATER**

"I've walked this path before," putting his fists in his pockets, he walked ahead of Kyle, "it's really not that bad."

"No cell service though…"

"You're right, we should tell someone where we're going," he dramatically turned in a circle, until he faced Kyle again, "Kyle, I'm going on this super creepy hiking trail, and I'll get muddy. I just wanted to tell you."

"Okay, smartass," Kyle followed his little brother, "But we're not walking the whole thing. Just a little and then we're coming right back. We can't be late for the… for the funeral."

He wished they didn't have to go.

…

He wished he didn't have to go.

Kenny McCormick, 18 years old, hating himself, hating how bloodshot his eyes looked in the mirror, splashed his tired face with cold water.

The night before he had crawled into his window, bleeding from the chest. He lied on the carpet and dug out the bullet with trembling fingers, angry that he was going to die again, angry he would have to patch up the skin-tight suit again, angriest that he wasn't going to be strong enough to pull himself into bed to make it look like he was just sleeping; and Karen would probably see him bleeding out on the floor, again.

"I can't do this anymore," he said to his reflection. Every hit, every bullet, every stab- they took something out of him.

Splatters of bright red blood sprayed into the sink as he coughed.

(fuck i think im dying like really dying)

…

The sign wasn't lying. Portions were underwater and the boys got muddy. Smelling the freshly blooming flowers made Kyle sneeze and his eyes itch. It seemed like every year his allergies became worse and worse, which disappointed him because he loved flowers, especially daisies but never told anyone. A life of stocking up on allergy medication was before him, and the thought of having an entire life ahead of him suddenly seized him.

He still had an _entire life_ ahead of him, and he would be alone.

He stopped walking.

"What's wrong?" Ike called back over his shoulder.

The thought of asking Ike to throw him down the hill to be eaten by stray animals like Jezebel popped up. He bit his lip, "Nothing. Just thinking too much. We should probably head back, Ike. I need to shower."

Ike stood on the edge of the nearby hill and peered down to the watery abyss. "Damn, it's really flooded," he commented.

"Yeah, we need to go," Kyle glanced at his phone for the time. It was 7:27, "Mom and Dad are probably up now-"

A hissing sound came from his right.

Large and sauntering toward him, a raccoon appeared, its claws digging into the soil.

"Oh no, FUCK no," Kyle started backing away, "No, fuck that shit, no, no fucking way."

Suddenly he was 12 years old again, throwing his arms over his face.

Ike turned around, "Just kick it in the head-" The raccoon turned and hissed at Ike, "god damn that thing is huge." Ike lifted a knee to punt it, but slipped on the mud, and fell backward down the hill. The raccoon ran away at the sound of Ike's screaming.

Kyle lunged to the edge to see his 13-year old brother at the bottom, trying to get up, his pants soaked with river water.

"Holy shit, Ike, are you okay?!"

Ike stood up and flashed him a thumbs up, "Yeah, it's not that steep. I think I just-"

With the velocity of a broken elevator, Ike's feet suddenly sunk into the earth. Frantically he swung his torso around, jerking his legs, trying to escape, "Kyle!"

"I'm coming!" Kyle ran down, careful not to trip, grabbed onto a low-hanging tree branch and reached for him. Ike was already waist-deep, too far to even touch hands. Kyle inched a little further, almost falling in himself. Still no reach. With one shoulder he shrugged off his jacket and threw it around the branch. Grabbing the end of the sleeves like a handle, he skidded more toward Ike, whose head was now underwater, his tiny freckled hand reaching out. Kyle slapped his palm into Ike's and forcefully pulled him out; choking and spitting up soil and water.

"I got you, I got you, you're okay," Kyle sat them both back up against the bank, arm around him.

…

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking, Kyle? Oh, that's right, you _weren't._ There was a time, Kyle, when you used to use your brain. I guess that's just not the case with you anymore."

It was 8 am and Gerald had Kyle cornered in the living room, still in his bathrobe. Ike and Kyle's clothes were both tattered and earthy- Ike completely soaked.

Kyle maintained eye contact with his father as he spat insults at his eldest son. Kyle had learned time and time again to never look away from him when he was yelling, and he wasn't about to sulk away this time either.

"You could have gotten Ike _killed_." He forcefully shoved an open palm into Kyle's chest, knocking him back into the wall. Still, Kyle kept solemn silence.

"Dad! Stop! It was an accident!" Ike cried. Sheila ran around the corner with blankets; Ike grabbed at her elbow, "Mom! Tell Dad it was an accident! Please!"

Gerald turned around to look at Ike, "Yes, it was an accident, but it was a _preventable_ accident."

Sheila reached around and tossed a blanket to a hesitant Kyle. He didn't realize how badly he had been shivering until he wrapped it around himself.

"Gerald, can you tone it down? I'm pretty sure you're waking up the whole neighborhood," she drew Ike close to her. Mud was drying in his hair.

"It's okay, Mom," Kyle piped up, he couldn't stop himself. It was happening. He was going to stick up for himself again, "We may as well let everyone know what really goes on in this house."

Gerald snapped his head back over to him, "You shut the fuck up."

"Gerald!"

"No, Sheila, I'm tired of this," he growled, "Another word out of your faggy little mouth and I'm shoving your skull through this wall."

Kyle started grinding his teeth. He wanted so badly to retort, to really let him have it. The thought of punching his own father in the face seeped into his mind.

Sheila, shaking with rage, spoke quietly, scarily: "Gerald. We agreed… You promised me. You promised me that would stop talking to Kyle like that. You promised me."

"You promised all of us," Ike added, "but that's just like you to go back on your word."

"Ike, you two shouldn't have been out there-"

"No, we shouldn't have, but HELLO, can we talk about the fact that there's a giant sinkhole that someone else could walk into?! Kyle saved my life-"

"Ike-"

"We need to call the police before someone drowns in that fucking hell pit-"

"Ike, language!" Sheila warned.

"We'll call the cops, but right now I'm concerned with the fact that _this one_ ," he pointed a finger in Kyle's face, "almost got my son killed."

Kyle scoffed, "Am I not your son, too?"

Gerald turned red in the ears, "You used to act like my kid. But I don't know you anymore. Now, you're just some weird skin puppet that takes up space in my house. And you almost added to the body count today."

Ike and Sheila started to make sounds of protest but Gerald shushed them.

"Your irresponsibility could've wrecked everything for this family," he said.

"What about _your_ irresponsibility?" Kyle spat, "What about all the times _you_ put our family in danger because you're a selfish prick-"

He was cut off by Gerald's rough hand across his cheek. Kyle winced, cupped his face, leveling his gaze at his seething father.

"You have no right to talk to me like that, I am your father"

"You used to act like my father."

Gerald was about to raise a hand again before Sheila pulled on him, "That's enough! Don't you dare lay another hand on my child!"

They continued to squabble. Kyle met Ike's shivering gaze and mouthed _it's okay._ Ike pursed his lips and shook his head, _no, it's not okay._

"-we've been nothing but supportive and patient for you these past weeks, Kyle," Gerald was addressing him again, "And you can't even give us a 'thank you'."

" _Mom_ has been supportive and patient, you've just stood in the background because you're a fucking coward."

Gerald pushed Kyle once again into the wall, hitting the back of his head. Kyle grimaced, threw the blanket off his shoulders, grabbed his father by the shoulders and headbutt him with all the raging strength he had left. Gerald fell back, crumpled to the floor, holding his nose and groaning. Kyle's head throbbed, making him dizzy, and he didn't care. He headed for the front door.

"Kyle!" His mother yelled after him. But he couldn't hear her.

…

Sharon Marsh opened the door, gasping when she saw a battered Kyle on her doorstep, his hand covering his face.

"Mrs. Marsh, can I trouble you for an ice pack?" He asked through clenched teeth.

"Again? You poor thing," she kept her attention on Kyle, ignoring all the flowers and posters on her lawn, "Yes, of course, sweetheart, come in."

She took her would have been son-in-law's arm and brought him inside.


	11. What Was It Like?

_What was it like?_

 _What was it like?_

 _What does it feel like to kiss another boy?_

Girls crowded him, wanting more, always wanting to know more.

 _Stop asking, you're gross._

 _Of course, you'd think_ _ **we're**_ _gross, Kyle._

 _You interrogating me is gross._

 _But we want to know what it was like._

Cold leather cradled the back of his neck. The power was out- wind rattled the window pane, and snow leveled at their front door, flurries chasing after one another. Candles were alight on the coffee table. Stan's parents were stuck across town, staying in a hotel, the roads too packed with snow to travel.

Under the weight of Stan and three blankets, Kyle's heart beat faster. Stan kissed his pale chest, the large scar between his nipples, the softness of his belly, before returning to his face; cupping it in his hands.

"Kyle, you're crying," he wiped a tear with his thumb.

"I'm just… happy."

Stan kissed him with cool lips and his pink kitten's tongue. Kyle's fingers traced Stan's spine, feeling every small bump.

 _What was it like?_

He laid on the couch now with the weight of an ice pack on his face, the sounds of Randy yelling at Gerald on the sidewalk.

 _What was it like, assaulting your own father?_

Their voices swelled: _My son's fucking funeral is today!_

 _What was it like watching your brother almost drown?_

Sounds of Sharon in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans in between sobs.

 _What was it like seeing your boyfriend cold and dead on a metal table?_

Sparky whined, sniffed around Kyle's clothes. Shelly at the window, watching.

 _What was it like having your life fall apart?_

Stan was on him again, in him again, kissing his face, telling him not to cry.

 _What was it like?_

 _Please stop asking me._


	12. Please Don't Leave

"We should kiss.

Not because you passed my way by chance

but because you stopped

and I haven't been the same since."

-Courtney Peppernell, PILLOW THOUGHTS

 **January 14, 2017**

 **4:43 pm- Kyle: Hi Kenny!**

 **4:47 pm- Kyle: I know it's been awhile… how are you?**

 **5:30 pm- Kyle: We miss you being around. I miss our friendship. I hope we can hang out soon.**

He laid the phone on his chest and flipped through the T.V. channels. After a long day of helping his mom with cleaning and shopping, Kyle Broflovski was sprawled on the living room couch in a baseball tee and gray sweatpants. A weather advisory was nestled in the corner of the screen. Ike was in the recliner next to him with the latest issue of _Popular Mechanics_ , occasionally licking the tip of his finger as he turned the pages. His nose scrunched up when Kyle flopped onto the couch.

"Your feet smell," he said, fake gagging.

"Your face smells… Well, it's about to," Kyle reached forward and whipped off one of his dirtied socks and chucked it at Ike's face.

Ike spasmed, shrieking, "Gondor calls for aid!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Gerald had called from somewhere upstairs.

The weather woman gestured with her arms, the image of Colorado swathed in blue. A snowstorm was coming later that night; an anticipated beastly one. Sheila and Kyle spent the day making sure they wouldn't have to leave the house for anything, stocking up on food and toiletries- evening making sure they had enough blankets, candles, charged batteries for flashlights in the case the power went out. Ike even set up the extra generator, if that were to happen.

The phone went off with a text, sending a vibration through his rib cage.

 **5:54 pm- Stan: What Disney character do you see me as?**

 **5:54 pm- Kyle: Ummmm lemme think…**

 **5:55 pm- Stan: And don't you dare try to be funny and say fucking Shrek**

 **5:55 pm- Kyle: Shrek**

 **5:55 pm- Kyle: Oops lol**

 **5:56 pm- Stan: GOD DAMN IT**

 **5:57 pm- Kyle: No no no no you're Wall-E**

 **5:58 pm- Stan: Lol wait really?**

 **5:59 pm- Kyle: Yesh**

 **6:01 pm- Stan: Does that mean you're Eve? Owo**

 **6:02 pm- Kyle: No lol**

 **6:02 pm- Kyle: I'm all that trash that got left behind on Earth**

 **6:03 pm- Stan: -_-**

 **6:04 pm- Kyle: Lol**

 **6:11 pm- Stan: Btw I'm outside**

 **6:12 pm- Kyle: Waitwahtwhy**

 **6:13 pm- Stan: If you're trash, then I gotta pick you up and take you out**

 **6:14 pm- Kyle: You stole that joke from the tumblrs**

 **6: 14 pm- Stan: I AM tumblr**

"I need my stinky sock back," Kyle said to Ike, snatching his _Lion King_ blanket off the arm of the couch. He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed, the usual cluster of things he always took with him. "Tell Ma I'll be right back."

…

Kyle appeared outside, the chilly winter air biting his face; clad in untied boots, an orange jacket, and the blanket wrapped around his head like E.T. in the bike basket, squinting in the darkness, the only source of visibility being the dim porch light and headlights in the driveway. No matter how many times he blinked, the image before him stayed the same.

Sitting in a tiny, aqua-colored escort with rusted doors and a cracked windshield was Stan, beaming with pride. He grunted, struggling to roll down the window as Kyle got closer, inaudibly reminding himself to fix the stickiness later. Kyle leaned down, staring daggers at his boyfriend of four years:

"The fuck is this?"

"My car."

"The fuck it is."

Stan frowned, "You don't like it?"

"Does the heat even work?"

"Yeah, dude," Stan turned a knob, and the drone of hot air hummed.

"What about the air conditioning?"

"Um," Stan scratched at his earlobe, not looking at Kyle, "what about it?"

"Does the fucking A/C work, Stan?"

"Well, no. I have to fix it. But it'll be awhile before I even need it. I can just drive with the windows down if I have to."

"It gets hotter every summer…"

"Maybe we just need to train our bodies to acclimate, then."

Kyle rolled his eyes and straightened up, "You should've told me you were going to buy a whole ass car-"

"-as opposed to a half ass car?"

Kyle sighed heavily, "I could've come with you."

Shoulders tensed, chin squarely up, squinting through Kyle's sour expression, Stan retorted, "Maybe I just wanted to do something by myself for once."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Stan looked forward, hands on the steering wheel. Admittedly, he felt wrong, brandishing acidity at the person he loved the most. But he had been thinking it for awhile. "It's cold. Get in."

For a moment, Kyle had the urge to turned around, rush back into the house, lock the door, leave Stan out in the driveway, ignore all of his texts and calls, make him feel a few days of pain in return for being a dick. A braid of hurt and indignation pulled in his chest.

But he pushed the animosity down and walked to the passenger side, opening and closing the door behind him gently, afraid it would break off.

(its fine its fine he didnt mean it)

Stan cleared his throat, "Uh, so the guy I bought this from left some cassette tapes-"

"-how much?"

"We've got some Mariah Carey, Selena, Whitney Houston, Gloria Estefan-"

"-how much was the car, Stan?"

"500. Not bad for a fixer-upper," he replied, not looking up at Kyle, transfixed in the tapes, "Ooh, No Doubt."

"$500?! Stan, that's insane! I wouldn't have even paid 100 for this shit!"

"I'm thinking some good old Alanis Morissette."

Kyle gave up and slouched into the seat, tightening the blanket around himself. Stan popped in the cassette and backed out of the driveway. Fuzzily, "All I Really Want" poured from the speakers.

"Put your seatbelt on," Stan commanded when the alert dinged from his dashboard. "Having a blanket on isn't going to protect you from getting launched through the fucking windshield."

Kyle let out a little groan and obliged. "Well, you'd probably be better off if I did."

"Don't. Don't start with that again. You know I wouldn't be 'better off'."

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the wind blowing through naked tree branches, creating wavering shadows under street lights. Kyle was about to speak up, find some way to attack him, but before he could open his mouth, he felt Stan take his hand, interlacing their fingers and resting them on center console.

"This is nice," Stan gave Kyle's hand a soft squeeze, "I get to take _you_ out instead of you having to lug me everywhere."

Instead of spitting out something like 'you asshole' or another comment about the car, Kyle bit his lip. Thoughtfully, he stared at the side of Stan's face, a constant against the passing winter scenery outside of the glass. He squeezed back.

"I don't mind though," his voice took on a newer, gentle tone, "But where are you even taking me? From the looks of it, you're about to leave me in a ditch somewhere."

"I mean, I can if you really want me to."

Kyle laughed, "Murder me, daddy."

"Jesus Christ. Okay, Fifty Shades of Broflovski, I think _you're_ the one spending too much time on 'the tumblrs'."

"Nope, just playing _Animal Crossing._ "

"Oh, God."

" _I have to._ If I don't check in, Kyleville gets overgrown with weeds."

"...Kyleville?"

"That's what I call my village, don't hate."

The track faded to "Hand in My Pocket." Snowflakes began flurrying past them.

"We really can't be out that long. It's too dangerous," Kyle said, digging into his pockets for a lighter.

"I know. You're not smoking in here, by the way. I don't care if you roll the window down."

Kyle froze. The jurisdiction from Stan was sharp, almost sounding parental.

"Stan, I hate to ask but… are you taking your meds?"

Stan had started taking medication with the help of a discreet clinic, and Kyle was usually the one to pick it up for him. He still had bad days, the nurse practitioner said it would be six months before real improvement, but overall, he glowed a little more, especially when he remembered to take the take the little white pill.

Stan's fingers loosened. His arm drooped, his face downcast. "Yeah, I am."

"Okay. I'm sorry, it's just that you forget sometimes and I-"

"Yeah, I know," Stan roughly shook off Kyle's hand and turned up the music. The static made Kyle wince but he didn't want to complain, not now.

(and i worry about you a lot)

They pulled into a CVS parking lot just as the wind started blowing stronger.

"Why?" Kyle asked, gesturing with his hand, his face illuminated by the blaring red letters of the drug store.

"I just need to get a few things. You can stay here."

Stan turned to leave. Kyle grabbed his elbow, "Wait."

"What?"

"Can we just sit here a second?"

"Sure, I guess," he turned down Alanis.

Kyle continued holding on to his arm, "Why did you kiss me at my Bar Mitzvah?"

"Because I wanted to?"

"Why'd you want to?"

Stan softened, the whites of his eyes florid, "Because I love you."

"Do you still?"

"Kyle… what kind of question is that? Of course I still love you. I've never stopped."

"Then why are you acting like this? You're… you're treating me like shit."

Stan said nothing, his lips pursed. He pulled on the door handle and leaned out, "I think you're overreacting," leaving Kyle in the dark.

He watched as Stan disappeared behind the sliding glass door, into the fluorescent light. How many times has he heard that: _You and your mother overreact to everything- stop being so fucking emo._ With a dejected sigh, he stepped out as well and lit up. Shadowy figures walked by him, sometimes glaring him and his smoking mouth. Now and then he glanced up, hoping to see Stan on his way back, so they could just go home and sleep this off, but he was taking a while. Their town's CVS usually only had one cashier working anyway, of course it would take some time.

More snowflakes were falling, melting into his hair and freezing his scalp. He tapped ashes out into the air, leaning against the escort.

The past few months had been strenuous for both of them. They were trying so hard to help Stan stay alive, but sometimes, he wouldn't let Kyle help. He would push him away, yell at him for being too invasive, curse him.

(i wish he would just put down the scissors and let me in)

He looked up at the dark sky, blotted with gray clouds, a few stars, Venus. Harsher gusts of snow cut at his face; he opened his mouth and let the flakes dissolve on his tongue.

(patience forgiveness patience forgiveness patience forgiveness)

the more i think them the less they mean

love is patient love is kind

fuck im the worst)

…

 **June 10, 2017**

Kyle is throwing up in the shower. The dirt and worms come out. Maggots crawl out of his nose. They wiggle around his curled toes, gripping the tub for balance. He's bent over, watching earth tumble from his mouth. Blood blood blood he sees. On his pruney fingers. Thin, leaking out like a bloodied steak. He pushes the worms through the drain, separating them, jamming their bodies through black circles, trying to make them fit. His chest is a map of jagged purple lines, pulsing lightning to match his heart.

What's left of it.

…

Bodies swaying with the road, saying nothing, feeling everything. Clouds of dirt billowed up from behind the tires, driving past fields of fields, growing whatever; Kyle wasn't sure anymore. His head still throbbed. He could swear he was still licking dirt from his teeth.

Sparky wiggled in his lap, spreading more dog hair- he had borrowed Randy's suit; a little too loose and a little too short, it was used to seeing dog hair. Nothing he was wearing was his own. After the shower, he had to take Stan's underwear, his socks, his shoes, his deodorant- an orange scent. Kyle gave the pup a scratch behind the ears. He wished, for a moment, that he could be an animal, unaware of complex emotional pain, not understanding anything. But he looked into Sparky's dopey brown eyes and remembered that animals, maybe even more so that humans, understood death and understood pain without making it complex; just feeling.

Then he wished he was a plant, any plant, rooted and unknowing. But grass knows when it's cut, dandelions get their heads popped off, roses have their thorns sliced, but cacti, he thought, cacti live in the desert alone. Anything that does happen, happens around them and not to them.

He ran his fingers over the heart-shaped stain on the seat between him and Shelley. She hadn't talked much since coming back to the state.

 _I'm a cactus,_ he mused, as they pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. Kenny's truck was already there. As soon as the blonde stepped out, also in a suit too big for him, Sparky sat up and wagged his tail.

All of them filed out of the truck like zombies. Sparky sniffed at Kenny's ankles, his pink leash swaying. Randy and Sharon came around the front of the vehicle, Kenny gestured to them with a sky-blue envelope: A sympathy card.

"Um, this is for you guys. My folks are coming later," he said. Sharon quietly took it from his shaking hands.

"Thanks, buddy," Randy clapped a hand on Kenny's shoulder, "Who did your hair?"

"Oh," he ran a hand over his braids, "Karen, of course."

"You look like Legolas," Shelley peered around the trunk.

"Remember when you kids would play _Lord of the Rings_ all the time," Sharon spoke, her voice trembling a touch, "It seems just like yesterday…" She looked at Kyle, "It seems just like yesterday you were knocking on the front door with a spatula and a scarf tied around your hat, looking for Stanley."

"I remember," Kyle said, looking down at his shoes, "I remember everything."

Kenny glanced at him.

(not _everything_ kyle)

They all shifted a little. Sharon pulled Kyle into a hug, kissed him on the temple, before disappearing with Randy and Shelley.

As they walked away, Kenny took a small step toward Kyle, "Hey-"

"-I wish I was a cactus."

Kenny paused, his mouth slightly open, studying the boy that was looking off to the side, numb.

"Same."

"Are you saying 'same', just to say it?" asked Kyle, still not looking at his friend.

"No, I mean, I get it. To just stand still. No one can touch you. I get it."

Kyle finally looked at him with tired, gray-green eyes.

"And," Kenny added, "as a cactus, you get to get to be some design on a Forever 21 shirt."

Taken off guard, Kyle suddenly laughed. The sound was foreign to him at this point, "Dude, what?"

"I had to take Karen and her friends to the mall the other day and I kinda followed them around, I mean, I did my own thing, but I watched them from a distance because whenever there's a group of pre-teen girls, there's bound to be a group of pre-teen boys, and boys are…" Kenny raised his hands and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I know. We were boys once," Kyle half-smiled, then added quietly: "You're gonna be a good dad someday."

Kenny, somewhat taken aback, shook his head, "I have to actually find someone that wants to have a kid with me, then we'll see."

"Yeah, that first step is kinda important."

Sparky paced around them, sniffing the air.

"I don't wanna intrude," Kenny started slowly, "But I can't help but noticed that bruise." He pointed at Kyle's hairline, where the skin was violet.

"Ugh," Kyle pulled at his curls, trying to bring them down over his forehead, "I got into a fight with my dad this morning."

"Are you serious? Dude, that's fucked up."

Kyle remembered when he was so little, he would get excited when his father's lawyer commercials would fill the T.V. screen, his figure replacing the "I" in the middle of two giant white letters: "W" and "N."

"Well, he's an asshole," Kyle stated flatly. Silence rested between them for a minute before Kyle turned to walk inside. Sparky leaned into Kyle's legs and whined, pushing his full weight, blocking him.

"I think he knows," Kenny picked the dog up and cradled him, "It's okay, boy."

They walked toward the red-brick building, the sound of birds and grasshoppers echoing through the empty lot.

Kenny cleared his throat, "You know, if somehow you ever get stranded in a desert, you can stab a cactus. Water will come out."

"...I know."

…

Kyle hadn't been to a funeral in several years, not since Chef, and before that, his grandmother, but he remembered how these things went: people come in, act nice to you, say nice things, say nice things about the person in the box, leave, and move on.

The woman who greeted them in the vestibule stood completely straight, her hands behind her back, eyes aglow under dark eyebrows. As she spoke, and she spoke quickly, Kenny noticed her tongue was split in two like a snake's. She led them to Stan's room. Randy whispered something about never seeing her before, and they've been dealing with a different funeral director for the whole week.

They approached the casket with hesitant, light footsteps. Kyle and Kenny stayed behind while Randy, Sharon, and Shelley got closer. Kyle watched as their shoulders slumped, taking it all in.

"He looks good," Randy finally declared, he turned around and ushered the boys forward, "Come look, come see."

They parted, letting the boys come forward.

 _Good_ wasn't the adjective Kyle would have used. It didn't look like Stan anymore. He was doll-like, waxy, with blushing cheeks and slicked back hair, not smiling. The night before, Kyle had looked up the embalming process. He knew Stan was dried out now, filled with chemicals, his jaw wired shut. Someone had to style his hair, put that makeup on him so he wouldn't look so pale. Fixed him up with that damn too skinny tie. The clothes that Stan had died in- the decrepit Adidas, the khaki shorts, the holey tee shirt, were all tied up in a bag and stored in an evidence locker.

Kenny leaned into Kyle. "You know it's not actually him. It's just his body." He wondered if saying it actually mattered. Or he just needed to remind himself.

Kyle leaned down and stroked Stan's cheek, like he was tucking him into bed.

A few guests showed up; the family went to them, leaving Kenny, Kyle, a still-leashed Sparky. And Stan.

"Babe…" he said softly. He wanted to climb in, run his hands through his hair again, rest his head on his chest, close the lid over them, and stay that way forever. Cry for him forever. "I love you." Stan didn't say it back.

Kenny watched Kyle crouch over like a wounded animal, stare at the face of his once best friend. He swallowed, looked down at the floor, and his eyes blurred.

He felt Kyle hug him.

"It's okay, Kenny. It's okay."

"No, I know, I just…" He wiped away tears with the palm of his hand.

"It's okay," Kyle gave Kenny's shoulders a squeeze. He looked down at Stan, with his blank face and painted lips- remembering how his face looked when he said he didn't know if he could marry him. Maybe he was waxy then too. Maybe they both were. "The last thing I said to him was 'don't leave me like this'... I never thought it would be a precursor to-"

"-don't." Kenny said before Kyle could completely unravel and vomit the entire past, "It doesn't matter anymore. Just say what you need to say now. I can go, if you want."

"No, you can stay. I need you to stay, please."

Kenny just nodded. People came in, dressed in suits and floral dresses and sat in chairs, lined the walls, signed the guest book, pushing the ink too deep into the pages. Their hushed whispers grated Kenny's brain.

"Why couldn't you just stay and talk to me, Stan? Why did you ignore all of my calls and texts? God, _why?_ " His voice broke on the last 'why,' "It was supposed to be you and me forever, not you leave me behind before I get a chance to… just… _why_."

"You know he didn't _want_ to leave you," Kenny said softly.

"But he did."

"Kyle… I-"

"Hey, fellas!" a familiar voice resounded by them. Butters appeared, Father Maxi behind him, clutching a Bible. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"You're fine" Kyle said. He shook his hand, "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," he put a hand on Kyle's arm, "How ya doin'?"

Kyle shrugged, "As good as I can be, I guess… You wanna see him?"

"I do."

They moved aside. Butters held Stan's hand, took a deep breath, "Hey buddy. I know you fought hard. You had to fight hard every day. But we wish you were still here."

Kyle handed Kenny the leash for Sparky, "I need to sit down. I just can't. I can't do this..." He turned away.

"Son?" Father Maxi reached out, touched his shoulder blade.

Kyle paused, murmured into his shoulder, "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for your loss. If you ever need any counseling, don't hesitate to call me. It doesn't have to be faith-based. We can always just talk man-to-man." There were wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, hair completely grayed now. Crooked glasses. But the same kindness was still there.

"Thank you, Father," Kyle said, as sincerely as he could. He couldn't picture him ever sitting down, spilling his guts to this man, but he appreciated the offer. He left, sat down in one of the rows of chairs.

Maxi turned to Kenny, "You keep an eye on him. I'm worried."

"Worried about what?"

Maxi leaned in close, a sudden gleam of seriousness in his eyes, "Situations like this have a contagion factor. I'm afraid that Kyle might… copy… him."

"Ky…" he glanced at his friend, sitting with his face in his hands. For a second, he saw an image he didn't want to see: Kyle in the casket. His heart tightened. "He would never."

"Just look out for him."

"I plan to."

Father Maxi nodded, took off to talk to the Marsh family. Butters was still watching Stan. "Did Sparky see him yet?"

"Well, no," replied Kenny, looking down at the dog, who was standing at attention.

"You should let him see Stan."

"Yeah, okay."

He picked Sparky up and leaned him toward Stan's face. He tenderly sniffed the air at first. Kenny expected him to start whining once the realization kicked in. Instead, the fur on his back stiffened like a mohawk. He growled, saliva dripping between his teeth. The growl became louder, and people looked up. Butters back away.

"Um, um…"

Sparky barked and trembled, wrestling with Kenny's arms. He nearly dropped the dog, and as soon as his paws hit the carpet, he stopped.

(something the fuck is wrong)

He looked around for the funeral director, that snake woman, but she was gone.

Kyle came running up, "What the fuck was that?"

"I don't know, dude. I don't know."

…

The thing that angered Kyle the most was everyone's complacency with the circumstances, everything from their vague appeasement at the impressionistic art on the walls, to the flowers that people weren't supposed to send, to the picture board- which Kyle admitted turned out beautiful, however, no one dared to spend more than a few seconds around Stan. It's uncomfortable to see the waxy body of a friend in a box. The unfair expectation to make everyone else feel comfortable had been given to him, but he just couldn't do it. Randy and Sharon were better at it. They just extended their parental instincts to everyone there.

The politeness killed Kyle, but he understood that that's just how it is. How funerals always go. Hell, he's _been_ that person before. He just went with it. Became a cactus.

Kenny sensed all of this, but he couldn't blame Kyle for feeling that way didn't try to put it in perspective for him like how he would with Karen. It was an uncomfortable, polite mess, but it would be over with soon. Kenny also noticed that Gerald hadn't shown up, just Sheila and Ike. That seemed to be okay with Kyle. He embraced his brother like he was never going to see him again.

The only person who seemed to be openly disturbed by it was Wendy Testaburger, who had been standing at the back of the room by herself, tightly clutching her purse strap for the last five minutes.

...

This was a different Wendy than the one picked up from the airport. The Wendy from two days ago had a much more deeply intelligent and cultured vibe about her that was intimidating. Eyebrows arched, watching Kyle's every move, every facial twitch, as he drove. She seemed to want to counsel him, speaking softly and slowly to him as they drove on the freeway.

"Are you sure that this is okay? You're comfortable with me being here?" she had asked.

"Of course. You were… important to Stan. You _should_ be here."

She stared at him for a long time. He tried not to let it bother him but soon he became self-conscious and tried to focus on the traffic.

"I'm sorry," she said, finally looking ahead at the road.

"Huh?"

"If I've ever said or done anything to hurt you. I'm sorry."

"You haven't, Wendy," he noticed how pale, purple, and blotchy his hand looked on the black steering wheel. A vein he never saw before was pulsating in his knuckles. "To be honest, the only slightly distressing thing you said to me was that my Human Kite costume wasn't as good as the elf one."

Wendy smiled and shook her head, "I just didn't like it because it covered most of your face."

"That was the goal," Kyle laughed, "And less wind resistance. But really, you've never bothered me. I kind of just saw you as friendly competition."

"For Stan?"

"O-Oh, no. For grades."

"Oh."

"Yeah, no, I didn't realize I liked Stan until after you left, so… yeah," Kyle shrugged as if to say _do with that what you will._

"So… if you don't mind my asking, when did it actually happen?"

Kyle sighed, relaxing a little, "he kissed me at my Bar Mitzvah."

"That's really cute," she said.

"And then he hid in the bathroom the rest of the night. I had to keep sneaking challah and hummus for him under the stall door. It was romantic and kind of gross at the same time."

She glanced at the gold band on his finger, "You look so different from when we were kids."

"So do you."

"I mean, you have facial hair and everything. Anytime that I ever thought of you or Stan, or anyone else that I knew here, you're 10. As I got older, I still thought of you as 10."

Kyle threw on a blinker, merged into the left lane to exit. He caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror as he said: "And now Stan's going to be 18 forever."

…

Now she was standing, away from everyone, rigid and pale. Kyle approached her, trying his best to act calm, not be awkward.

"Hi, Wendy."

"Hey, Kyle," she mechanically lifted herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

"Do you want me to hang up your cardigan or anything?"

"No, I'm fine. Is there something I can do for you?"

"No. Just you being here is enough."

With think pink lips, she smiled sadly. Kyle reached out and took her hand, "We found a picture of you and Stan. It's on the board."

He led her up the large, white square, pasted with several photos, most of Stan and his family, and of Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, but there was one of just Stan and Wendy, holding hands during a field trip to Denver.

"This turned out really nice," she said.

"Yeah… Kenny did it," said Kyle. Wendy looked over her shoulder and nodded at Kenny who waved back. Butters waved too, sitting next to him.

She silently put a hand on the board, gazing at the Polaroid of herself and Stan.

"Okay," she said, more to herself than to Kyle, "Okay, okay, okay…"

"Wendy?"

"I'm going to look at him now," again to herself. She slowly turned to the casket.

"I'm here, Wendy," Kyle followed her as she loomed over Stan, carefully studying his face.

The sound, unmistakable, Kyle had heard it before, the panic, the air became jagged. She was hyperventilating, lungs crashing. Then it came: the scream.

…

Kyle sat with Wendy for a long time out in the lobby, her sobbing into his shoulder. He had an arm around her, staring down at the marble floor, then up at the fish tank that hummed in the wall. Soft jazz filtered through the speakers. Elevator music for the dead.

"I'm so sorry," Wendy sniffled. She buried her face into his neck. Feeling her tears soak his shirt made him flinch, but he didn't want to be rude and push her away.

"Don't be sorry."

"I lost control."

"You're only human, Wendy."

Microphone feedback pierced the air. Soft clicking of high heels echoed from the floor. They looked up to see Bebe wringing her hands, staring. "Are you okay, Wendy?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Wendy wiped her eyes with her fingertips.

"I brought some extra mascara with me, if you want… Not that you need to fix it. I'm just saying, if you wanted to."

"Okay," she said quietly, slowly rising off the bench and out of Kyle's arms.

Bebe turned to Kyle, "I can take care of her. You should go back. I think Father Maxi is about to start."

…

Kenny is screaming in the bathroom. He covers his face to muffle it but he can feel the vibrations in his hands, the sound hit him back. He kicks at a urinal.

It's all too much.

It's all too much.

It's all too much.

…

"God our Father,

Your power brings us to birth,

Your providence guides our lives,

and by Your command we return to dust."

Kenny slid into the empty seat next to Kyle, who was staring longingly at Stan.

"Lord, those who die still live in Your presence,

their lives change but do not end.

I pray in hope for the family, and their friends,

and for all the dead known to You alone.

In company with Christ,

Who died and now lives,

may they rejoice in Your Kingdom,

where all our tears are wiped away,

and we are united again as one family.

Amen."

The room murmured a soft amen in return.

After, Sharon came up to speak:

"...No one ever anticipates having to bury their own child. It should have been the other way around. My Stanley was a good boy. He didn't deserve to have his life taken from him like this."

Kyle could barely stand to hear her.

"But I am so thrilled to see so many of you here, all of his friends, our family…"

Then, a few other kids from school, including Clyde: "One time Stan threw those TNT popper things at me when I was on the toilet at school."

Token: "I remember when Stan brought in a skunk from recess because he thought its leg was broken."

Kyle went up. It was expected of him, but once again, he had nothing prepared. He couldn't bring himself to sit at the kitchen table or his desk and actually write about his dead boyfriend in a school notebook and an old pencil. He felt like he was in a movie, watching from another spot in the room as this lanky, tall, pale, shattered man found his way up to the front of the room, looked at his boyfriend's body once more. Kyle looked out and saw his mother and Ike watching him. Sheila had her hand over her heart.

"H-Hi," he moved into the microphone, "I've known Stan, quite literally, my whole life. Every great childhood memory that I have- Stan is there. He was such a presence, just in the way that he could bring joy into any atmosphere, light up every room, just by being himself. I loved him so much. He was so…" he paused. The people in the room started blurring, a lump formed in his throat, but he pushed, "He was so special to me. And this is hard, because when you find someone like that… it's…"

(youre overreacting)

"I am so sorry." Kyle backed away. He couldn't finish. His hand went over his mouth, and the tears came. Kenny rushed up. He put an arm around Kyle, pulling him in tight.

"All of my good memories have Stan in them, too," he said, leaning into the mic. "Um, I wasn't planning on saying anything today, but…" he looked at Kyle, who had his head down, eyebrows furrowed, eyes wet. He gave his arm a gentle squeeze, "That's just how it is sometimes. We always end up doing things we never thought we'd be doing."

Kyle glanced up at him and saw that his eyes were red and raw.

Kenny continued: "Um, actually, there was this one time that Stan joked that he wanted us to sing "Closing Time" by Semisonic at his funeral- do you remember that?"

Kyle nodded apprehensively, "yeah."

"I'm not going to punish everyone by actually singing it," there was some polite laughter, "but there is a lyric that goes _every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end,_ and Father-" he looked at Maxi. "In your prayer, towards the end, you said 'their lives change but do not end.' From listening to everyone speak today, we know that each of us has a memory of Stan, several memories. Little pieces of him that we all hold. And I really think that because of that, he's still here in a way."

He looked at Kyle again. "Stan never left you, Kyle. And he never will," he put a hand over Kyle's heart, "he's still right here."

Kyle, sniffling, did the same, and they stared at each other for a moment before Kyle threw his arms around Kenny's shoulders.

Then Wendy rose, hand-in-hand with Bebe, walked up, and did the same, both of them cradling the boys. Then Butters. Then Heidi. Then Token. Then Clyde. Then Tweek. Then Craig. Then Jimmy. Then Timmy. Then Red. A huddle 17 and 18-year-olds, grief-stricken, holding each other still, like cacti in a hot, hot desert.

…

The sound of engines faded out as everyone drove out into the roads, with their botched mufflers, muddy tires, and bumper stickers that said things like "My Child is An Honor Student." Sheila had a few of those on her car too.

Burning breached his lungs, leaning on Kenny's truck, watching the smoke blow out of his nostrils and into the empty sky; the lot feeling too open but constricting at the same time. It was early afternoon and hot as hell. Kyle thought about Stan's car, sitting empty in the driveway with a broken A/C. In a couple days he would have to accompany Stan's family for the burial, but days were worlds away, and he pushed it out of his mind.

Kenny was digging through his truck, tossing various receipts and bottles into the back, until he found the shrink-wrapped bag with a small brown jacket and red collar.

"You don't have to clean anything out. It's fine," Kyle tapped out ashes, watching them sprinkle onto the concrete.

"No, it's okay," he tucked the coat under his arm carefully so Kyle wouldn't see, "I have to pee. I'll be right back."

"Okay- well, wait."

"What?"

"I just wanted to say thank you," Kyle turned to him slightly, "Thank you for finding words for me when I couldn't. Stan would've loved what you said."

Kenny smiled, "Anytime, Broflovski."

…

River Funeral Home was darker now, only sunlight glowed through the tall windows of the lobby. The air conditioner hummed. Kenny wanted to go back. Go back to when they were boys and summer meant fireworks, barbeques, swimming, the smell of sunscreen, and on some days- boredom. He would give anything to be bored again.

Entering the room again, void of people walking around, chattering, weeping, carved a new sense of loss from him. At the front, Stan's casket was still open, like he was expecting Kenny to come back, opening the front door of his new home in the underworld: _Come in dude! We're just in here playing cards with Elvis and Teddy Roosevelt and Emily Dickinson- I'm so happy you could stop by. Could you tell Kyle to stop being sad? He's probably better off without me anyway._

With a heavy sigh, he walked up. Despite the waxy shell, Stan looked peaceful, like he had lived 1,000 lives and was ready to rest. Kenny knew the feeling. At the same, he could see why Sparky hadn't recognized him. He placed a hand on the edge, feeling the smooth, polished oak.

"Hey, dude."

(anytime broflovski)

"I know the last time we talked was very brief. I know that it's my fault we all grew apart. I know how hard you tried to get the band back together… God, I wish you knew that I knew… I never wanted this to happen, never wanted anything bad to happen to you. I just… cut you guys off because I was scared you'd find out about…" He thought of Kyle standing outside, leaning against the truck. He remembered the times he wished it was Kyle in his backseat instead of whoever else ended up back there, "I was just trying to guard my heart, I guess."

Kenny tore open the plastic and pulled out the jacket.

"You put this on me when I fell out of the tree… You just wanted me to have a coat."

He gently laid it over Stan's chest like he had done for Kenny so many years before. There were some rips, bits of thinned fabric from several cycles in the dryer, evenings of splashing in puddles and falling in warm mud.

"I'm sure I'll see you on the other side. Sometime soon."

With his hands in his pockets, he stayed for a little while, just staring.

…

"Are you sure you should be drinking with your head like that?" Kenny asked, pulling a box of PBR from a small fridge in the garage, then closed the door with his foot.

Kyle stood holding a tray of kneaded balls of hamburger, his tie loosened, suit jacket off, "It's not like I have a concussion… again. My head is so hard now."

"You had a hard head even before then," Kenny grinned. "You're pretty fucking resilient."

They started walking back outside into the dry, June heat.

"Regardless though, I don't like beer."

"Oh, what _do_ you like?"

"Anything hard."

"Hard like your head?"

"You got it."

Nearby, the chatter of people, all friends from school, it was like Kenny never dropped out, was around the corner. Out of the confines of the funeral home, people seemed able to fluidly talk about Stan, light-hearted and lovingly. Even Kyle was able to crack a joke or two, though he admitted quietly to Kenny that he was feeling a "little loopy" from the stress and lack of sleep.

"I wish Stan could see how many people came," Kyle said, watching Kenny light the grill, "I wish he could know how many people will miss him."

Pressing the spatula into the beef, Kenny listened for the satisfying _hiss_. "I have a bottle of vodka with your name on it."

…

dopamine

serotonin

oxytocin

The teacher has just asked them to describe love. _Take a few minutes to write and then share with the class._ More Shakespeare, _The Tempest._ The teacher was unconventional, experimental, assigning them a sonnet a week (mostly the gay ones, Kyle noticed) and starting with the later plays and working backward, sometimes sideways. Everyone around him continued writing and he sat with his three words, hands folded in his lap.

 _Is that really all you wrote, Kyle?_

"I can't think of what else to say."

 _I've read your essays before. I_ _know_ _you have more to say._

…

 **To take the bones of your mind and lay them out on an Armenian rug, clean them with a toothpick so that there's not a speck of dirt left.**

 **What a waste.**

 **I want your dirt.**

-somewhere in one of Stan's notebooks, or in a folder. It doesn't matter. It's in Kyle's room now.

…

Kenny barged into his bedroom, a sloppy Kyle draped over his shoulders, breathing heavily- the combination of alcohol, grief, and heat had overcome him.

Sprawled out on navy blue bed sheets like a sea star, Kyle groaned; pulled the tie over his head and unbuttoned his shirt so that his scar peeked out. Kyle had never laid on just a mattress on the floor before, but he liked it. He liked being closer to the ground. A small trash can was pulled up next to him.

"Just in case," Kenny grinned. "You can sleep it off in here if you want. I'll go sleep on the couch."

Kyle's eyes widened, "No, please don't leave me."

His Cheshire cat smile faded into concern, "I'd just be right in the other room, Kyle. You won't be alone. If I stayed here, where would I even sleep?"

"With me."

"It's… kind of a small bed."

"So?"

" _You_ take up most of the bed."

"I'll move."

Kyle crept closer to the trash can, trying to shrink himself to the side.

"I guess that works," Kenny shrugged. He searched his closet for a new shirt, his current one soaked in grease, sweat, death, some alcohol, not nearly as much as he wanted, but enough. Pulling the shirt over his head, he got a whiff of it all.

"Whoa," he heard Kyle say quietly behind him. He didn't realize he was being watched.

"What?"

"Your tattoo is so cool."

On Kenny's right shoulder blade were yellow, pink, and red snapdragons, bunched together like how they would be in someone's garden. He forgot that he never told Kyle, never told anyone really, except for Karen. It was mostly for her anyway. Snapdragons were her favorite flowers after Kenny showed her some. He demonstrated how, when laterally squeezing them, they looked like dragons opening their mouths.

"Thanks," Kenny reached for a shirt on the closet floor, sniffed it to make sure it was decently clean, "I love snapdragons."

A pause, and Kyle said: "I love daisies."

Kenny smiled to himself before turning to face Kyle.

(good to know)

"So, what, you wanna get a tattoo now, Broflovski?"

Slyly, proudly, Kyle looked at him with half-lidded eyes.

"I have one already."

"You do? Where? I've never seen it."

"It's an orca."

"That doesn't surprise me at all. Where though?"

Kyle started undoing his belt buckle.

"What the fuck, dude, leave your pants on!" Kenny covered his eyes, his cheeks flushed.

"It's okay, Ken, it's on my leg. Well, my thigh."

Kenny peeked out to see that Kyle wasn't lying. His pant leg was pulled down some, boxers pulled up just slightly. The small orca was definitely there.

"Damn," he said, sliding next to Kyle on the mattress. "Who did that for you? It looks like stick and poke."

Kyle pulled his pants back up, "I did."

"Seriously? You just fucking sat there and stabbed yourself?"

"Yup."

"What _are you_?"

"Honestly, I don't know."

They laid side-by-side, staring up at the off-white, bumpy ceiling before Kenny reached over and turned off the lamp, leaving them in the complete dark.

"I'm getting another one soon," Kenny rested his hands on his stomach, "You can come with me, if you want."

"What are you getting?"

"I actually don't know yet."

(probably daisies)

…

He dreamed again that he was in the dark place, the sounds of wet grass soaked under his socks.

(no shoes why)

He had to know he was dreaming but it all felt too real. He could feel the wetness of the socks, feel the bark of the trees he touched on his fingertips. Bugs crawling through his hair, the chirping of crickets and hoo's of owls.

Wanting a glass jar just to fill it with the scent of the forest, it smelled so pure

(look me in the eyes and say it say it tell me

im not suicidal)

unencumbered by the stench of death and anxiety. It just was.

The sound of twigs snapping in the distance reminded him how cruel the darkness was- and all the things that happened within it, now a part of it, his face like a mask on a dummy, eyeless and mouthless. So thinly stretched.

The snapping came closer and the outline of someone familiar took form.

Slender shoulders he loved to kiss, the legs, torso, long arms, neck, the head with shaggy black hair. He reached out and was suddenly there, holding his face in his hands and running his fingers through that hair, but he couldn't make out the details of his face.

(stan)

They kissed with cold, stiff lips.

(stan come home please im begging you please please)

( )

(stan?)

( )

(answer me!)

His hands moved down to shake his shoulders and then he felt the tug and heard the distinguished sound that only the tightening of a rope could make. Yanked away from him and into the branches up above his head, Kyle only caught a glimpse of the bottom of Stan's foot, twitching.

(NO!)

Kyle's throat was breaking, his screams loud enough to wake up Kenny, wake up the whole neighborhood. Rolling over, all he could see was Kyle's mouth popped open, eyes wide, arms frozen at his side, completely paralyzed. Kenny tried to shake him awake- and immediately retracted. The skin was blazing hot.

Kyle wasn't fully awake. Still in the forest, screaming for Stan, until a force took him as well, strung him up, tightened around his neck. Like a mirror of his own body he saw Stan's limp, swaying in the wind. Windchimes.

In real life, he was choking himself- his hands an iron grip around his neck. Kenny, despite the burning, trying desperately to pry them off. Fingers went deeper, furrowed in the skin under a purple-growing face and watering eyes. The more he pulled, the tighter the grip.

"Kyle! Wake up!"

(please dont this i love you)

"What's going on?" Karen opened the door in polka dot pajamas, her face turning completely white as soon as the image of Kyle strangling himself and her brother crouched over him, yelling, shaking him.

"Karen, OUT!" he bellowed, sending the poor girl backward. "Kyle, please! STOP!"

Every moment of the day before flashed, buzzed in his blood, and all the times he had watched Kyle, listening to him laugh or cry or gripe about whatever was pissing him off that week and he wanted. He wanted more. It couldn't end like this.

(PLEASE KY COME BACK)

From the hallway, Karen bolted with a plastic cup full of ice cold water. She threw it all over Kyle's face.

Immediately, the tightness ceased. Kyle was awake, gasping deeply, his entire body contracting with the forceful intake of oxygen, rolling over onto his elbow and coughing harshly. Kenny held Kyle's wet, cold face in his hands. Karen thought Kyle looked like a startled baby, eyes wide and confused, sputtering, barely able to talk. Even though it was dark, the only light coming from the moon in the window, Karen could see her brother crying.

"Oh my God," he said in a tone she had never heard before. Sincere, vulnerable, "I thought you were going to leave me."

…

A gargoyle on the crest of a building, he watched Kyle vigilantly throughout the night. He slept deeply for seven hours, lost between dreams and nightmares. Once, on a wing of emotion, he ran a hand over Kyle's hair. He felt obsessive, creepy- but he couldn't help himself.

Kyle woke up to Kenny's eyes glued to him, and the loudness of lawn mowers and weed whackers sawing the air. The sounds of summer.

"How are you feeling?" Kenny asked.

The flood of reality was still seeping into him- Stan, his dad, Cartman trying to attack him. Nothing particularly in order, and the glimpses repeated themselves like all these moments and people were put on plastic cards and some kid was flipping them over and over again on the living room floor.

He swallowed. Dryness. "I'm okay. I think."

"You really fucking scared me last night, Broflovski."

"I know, I'm sorry," Kyle sat up stretched, propped himself on his arms, "I should have warned you about the sleep paralysis… and the nightmares. But the sleep paralysis is so rare for me. I just don't bother talking about it."

"How often do you have the nightmares?"

"Almost every night."

"Did they start after…"

"They started long before Stan went missing. He was trying to help me get rid of them."

"I see," Kenny leaped off the mattress. He bent down and patted Kyle's leg. "You probably want coffee." He didn't want Kyle to feel like he had to talk anymore. Words were straining him hoarse.

"Please."

"What about waffles?"

"No, you don't have to make me any food. You gave me too much yesterday."

"It's not that hard for me to slap a gluten disc into a toaster."

Kyle rotated, legs stretched across the floor, he hugged himself, neck still splotchy and green-yellow-violet. Kenny stared at him, his heart tightening again. "Do you always strangle yourself during sleep paralysis?"

"No… that's the thing. Sleep paralysis doesn't usually mean movement. You're just frozen and rigid, like, being dead at the bottom of a lake or something. I don't know. I'm kinda scared… Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

"The funeral's over."

"Yeah, it is."

"Are people just going to expect me to get over it now?"

"Of course not. Everyone wants you to feel better, but it's going to take time."

"A hundred years, Kenny."

"What?"

"A hundred years is all it will take. And then no one will know who Stan is. Millions and millions of years are going to pass, the Earth will keep spinning, dogs will keep barking, time will never, ever stop, but I'll be stuck here forever, in this moment, blaming myself for everything."

"Kyle…"

"How am I supposed to keep living my life? Everything I do now, I'm going to picture Stan with me. But he won't be there." he looked up at Kenny with bloodshot eyes. "What do I do now?"

"Just, one day at a time, Kyle."

"It should have been me in that casket."

A chill went through Kenny like cruel, icy lightning, "No." He looked around his room, the stained carpet and walls, until he found an old, brown leather wallet, and pulled out a card. He leaned down before Kyle, pressing it into his hand. It was a tarot card, infamous for telling people's fortunes by witches and circus carnivores; wrinkly and torn, but the drawing was clear: a young man in a green tunic, arms wide open, the sun beaming behind him and small dog dancing at his boots: The Fool.

"What is this?"

"This is my favorite tarot card. I want you to have it."

"I didn't know you were into that stuff."

"I dabble for fun," Kenny explained, "I don't believe that any of us have real attachments to the universe. We're just a part of it. That's kinda what this card is about. We see a fool, but it's really someone who just has faith in the future, knowing that it's okay if he's inexperienced or even a bit naive. We're always changing- things change, and we just can't predict what will happen.

I know that you'll keep Stan with you, always. There won't be a day that goes by that I won't think of him. But I hope… I really hope that as you heal, you look at things with fresh eyes and an open heart.

I've noticed that you… I can see that you're starting to close off, and it's okay if you want to be alone sometimes or you don't want to speak, but please, don't completely check out on us."

Kenny hugged him, held him there for a few minutes, Kyle squeezed him: "Thank you, Kenny. I love you."

"I… love you too."

In the doorway, Karen watched. She started listening in as soon as Kenny turned his back. Kyle hadn't noticed her either, the two of them were in their own bubble, their own osmosis of intimacy.

Their parents and oldest brother were all waiting at the front door in their Sunday best, Karen fidgeting in her dress and stockings, was told to ask Kenny if he was coming to church. But it was apparent her brother was very busy. She left without saying anything.

…

Kyle was washing his hands in the McCormick bathroom when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The first instinct was to punch it out, but he restrained.

Wendy hadn't sounded impressed by his facial hair, and he could see why, with its thinness and patchiness. What was she doing now? Was she at the Marsh's, sleeping in Stan's bed? Going through his stuff? _Their_ stuff? For the first time, he felt jealous.

His lips were chapped and the whites of eyes were yellow, red-rimmed, his hair scraggly, chaotic. The bruise was blossoming into a darker crescent.

"Why am I so fucking ugly?" he asked his reflection, hands on his cheeks, feeling so incredibly old.

…

Out in the kitchen, his introverted friend was brewing coffee and toasting waffles. Kyle went back into the bedroom to find his phone. Sure enough, there was a text from Sheila, sent several hours ago.

 **8:38 am- Maternal Unit: You did a wonderful job yesterday, Kyle. I am so proud of you for your strength. It's going to be hard for awhile, but I promise things will get better. Please come home soon so we can sit down and talk like a family again. Your father is sorry. I love you.**

"If he was really sorry, he'd tell me himself," Kyle muttered, threw the phone on the mattress with a thump.

Something else thumped at the same time. Something in Kenny's closet. He opened it gently, worried it may have been a toy or some other collectible. Instead, it was a box that had fallen off the top shelf, small books spilled out. He en down and picked one up: _Dangers of the Occult._

He thumbed through the weighty pages with narrow suspicion. _Why would Kenny care about the occult?_

The other books were in the same vernacular vein: _The Witches' Handbook_ ('if your ear itches, someone is talking about you') he instinctively scratched his ear, _Daughters of the Moon, Cleansing Rituals-_ this one had Kenny's handwriting all up in the margins, and was stained by what looked like black tea leaves.

The spines touched his fingertips with the prickling sensation of poison, but it took a backseat to his burning curiosity.

Another one: _The Satanic Bible._ Strangely enough, it was a paperback edition, just black with a glowing pink pentagram on the cover. Blinking hard, he opened to the very first page, and the phrase that jumped out to him was "the Christian church thrives on hypocrisy, and that man's carnal nature will [come] out!"

Then the last page, a few others stole his attention: "Open the gates of Hell!... Add and diminish until the stars be numbered… Open the mysteries of your creation, and make us partakers of the UNDEFILED WISDOM."

Kyle snapped it shut. In all his years of practicing the Torah, he had never come across something as straightforward and intimidating as that. He dug through the box some more, sickly fascinated by Kenny's secret "research project."

Cloth. He felt cloth. It looked like

(no way)

Kenny's old Mysterion suit that he used when they were just kids, pretending to be superheroes. But it was bigger now, adult-sized.

And it was ripped- a hole in the chest Kyle could fit his fist through.

"What the fuck…"

A glare caught him, reeled him in. At the bottom of the box, next to a silver dagger, was a picture of himself, Stan, and Kenny. He couldn't remember where they were, but they looked very young. Kyle was in the middle, an arm around both of them, smiling.

In the space between him and Stan, he noticed tiny white veins, like the picture had been folded back several times. To recreate it, he folded it too. Stan completely disappeared from the frame. With a frantic heartbeat, he flipped the picture over. In Kenny's handwriting, in blurred, black ink, it said: "Photographs serve memory how memory sees fit."

Kenny's footsteps were rapidly approaching, but Kyle couldn't unfreeze, shove everything back into the box, and pretend he saw none of it. Instead, he yanked the dagger out, and by the time Kenny entered the room, ready to announce they could eat in the kitchen, he had it pointed at him.

"What the _fuck_ did you do?!" he screamed.

Kenny raised his arms, eyes darting between Kyle's wild expression and the glinting blade almost touching his chest, "I haven't done anything."

"Why do you have all this Satanic shit in your closet? Why do you still have your Mysterion suit? Why does it have a fucking hole the size of my goddamn fist? And I'm pretty I saw blood stains too… And why, why," he held up the manipulated photo, "Why is the picture like this? What did you have against Stan?"

"Nothing!

(everything)

I swear!"

" _Did you kill him_?"

"Kyle, no!"

" _Did you kill him and curse me?_ "

"What?!" he stepped forward, but Kyle didn't move the dagger, "You should put that down."

"I can't. I won't. You might hurt me."

Kenny lowered his arms, stared at the seething Kyle. "I would never, ever, hurt you. I'd do anything for you." That second sentence slipped out of him, he would've thought twice before saying that in any other situation, but it was possible he could get stabbed any moment.

(fine let em stab me)

"Then explain to me, _now._ What the fuck is all this? Are you in a cult or something?"

Kenny slowly shook his head, "I promise, I'm not. I'm just… still trying to find out where I come from."

"What!"

"If I tell you what's really going on, you have to try not to freak out, um, even more than you are right now."

"Try me."

Kenny closed his eyes for a moment. This was not how he wanted Kyle to find out. Ideally, Kyle would never have to find out at all. But sometimes secrets just can't live. They fester and find their way out during the ugliest of times. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at Kyle's tired, dehydrated, lovely face: "I can't die."

The dagger lowered slightly. Kyle's mouth twitched, "you've told us this before."

"I did, but-"

"-it's bullshit. What fuck is wrong with you? You're not some character in a comic book, you're a _real person_."

"Kyle, I don't want to scare you, but, I've _met you_ before, and you're the most fucking stubborn and pragmatic person in the world. You're not giving me a choice now. I have to do this."

"What the-"

The handle was cool compared to the hotness of the room. Kenny breathed steadily, hyper-focused on Kyle's eyes as he pulled, the blade plunging into his chest. Blood pumped out onto their hands, and they staggered to their knees, falling like unstrung puppets. He pulled it out, felt that familiar metallic taste in his mouth, and threw it across the room. Kyle looked as if all the breath was sucked out of him.

Between raspy breaths, holding the wound, Kenny spoke, his voice rough and austere: "I've been this way as long as I can remember. I've been burned, decapitated, had my guts ripped out, drowned, poisoned, everything," he left out 'strangled' on purpose, "I've tried to tell you before, and you guys always forget-"

"-Kenny this is fucking insane."

"Believe me, I know. But it's the truth. Look."

Gently, he took Kyle's hands off, wiped away as much excess blood as he could, lifted his shirt. The wound was gone. There wasn't even a scar.

"What… what the fuck is this?" Kyle fell back, slowly pushing himself away, "What _are you_?"

"I'm still Kenny. I told you, I've always been this way," he crawled to Kyle, who was backed up against the wall now. "Please don't be scared of me."

"This isn't real. This isn't real."

"Kyle, this is real. I'm real," he pulled Kyle into a shaky hug, "If you think about it, it makes sense. This isn't the craziest thing to happen around here."

"I just don't understand," Kyle pushed him away, "Okay, maybe you do have some… immortality… traits. But it doesn't explain the picture. Why is Stan folded out like that? And the weird caption on the back?"

Kenny nervously rubbed his palms on his pants, "Kyle, you're smart. I know you have to know at this point. It's not that hard to figure out."

Knots were forming in Kyle's stomach, nausea, "No..."

"Fuck, you're really gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

Dizziness overtook him. "Oh God, no. Not here," Kyle whimpered, his forehead sweating.

"What?"

Kyle's mouth popped open and he retched. Clumps of dirt and trickles of blood streamed down his chin.

(im just like stan now)

Worms danced in his lamp.

…

 **January 14, 2017**

Stan moves through the wind like a black fish, he is blood and music and light, frost on the window, the wing of a crow that will never come back. A heartbeat, ink, wet lips. He crawls back into the car and kisses his angry boyfriend, tasting every part of his mouth like he's never tasted anything as sweet as this before.

(whatever it takes)

He reaches and clamps his hand around the box of Marlboro and tosses it out the window, reverses, sliding on ice, barreling out of the parking lot. In Kyle's lap are patches he has to wear on his arm like birth control.

"I don't want you to suffer anymore. I mean, I don't want you to get sick one day and then your lungs be in some textbook for med students who never even knew you."

For now, they can stop fighting- they can go home and make pasta, watch the dog chase his tail, bang their knees on the coffee table, watch 90s sitcoms until the power goes out, light spiced candles left from Christmas and then make love on the couch, kiss each other where it hurts until the flame takes its last hot breath.

 **Please Don't Leave by Trevor Something**

 **watch?v=ER9Q5bZy-Xg**


	13. Dolls

The first time Kyle saw death was when he was a toddler. He remembered standing in the front yard in the evening, barefoot, tricycle tipped over, its tires covered in mud and grass, the pink and violet tint of the sky, and an opossum scurrying into the street, only to be hit by a van. Flattened flesh and gore-matted fur stretched across the concrete, the creature's mouth open with its tongue out and black eyes squinted. The van kept going.

Whenever he thinks of that day, he remembers the stench of twisted and exposed entrails. Every time he meets someone, he wonders what their innards look like.

"Kenny can't die," he said to himself, cleaning Stan's dashboard with a wet rag, doors wide open, radio playing softly. Sparky was nearby on the lawn, lounging in a kiddie pool. "Kenny can't die," the more he said it out loud, he figured, the more he could get used to it.

" _What's the big deal? I think it would be pretty cool not to be able to die" Kyle put a hand on Kenny's shoulder._

 _"Pretty cool?! Do you know what it feels like to be stabbed?" Kenny turned and got in Kyle's face, "To be shot, decapitated, torn apart, burned, run over-"_

 _"-Kenny, Kenny, calm down!" Stan interjected._

 _Kenny ignored him, "It's not pretty cool, Kyle! It fucking hurts! And it won't go away, and nobody will believe me! Remember this time, try and fucking remember!"_

 _He moved across the room, put a pistol to his mouth._

The car jolted. Someone had just landed on the roof. Sparky barked. Kenny slid down the windshield on his knees, facing Kyle.

"Speak of the devil," Kyle muttered. Sparky laid back down as soon as figured out who it was. "Can you calm down with that shit? Someone's gonna see you."

Kenny pointed at the spiderweb shatter, "Windshield's cracked."

"Yeah, I know. That the only thing you notice?"

Kenny looked at him for a moment, fists up on the glass. "No," he said, studying Kyle's face, "You're sweating bullets."

"Well, it's hot outside," Kyle shrugged.

"Turn the A/C on for a sec."

Kyle almost laughed. If it wasn't painful, he would have. Kenny rolled off the hood and climbed into the passenger seat, "Is it broken?"

"Stan bought it broken."

"The hell did he do that for?" Kenny turned the air conditioning knob up, only for nothing to come out.

"He just… I think he just wanted to do something big by himself like he wanted to prove he could be independent. I was always coddling him… like a fragile porcelain doll or something. Also, I think he just felt bad for the car because no one else wanted to buy it."

Kenny reached over and pressed the hazards button and both the blinkers chimed in rhythm, pushed it again to turn them off, "Yeah, sounds like Stan."

They listened to radio commercials about restaurants, car dealerships, sex shops, trade schools, all of them interchangable. A couple of days before, when Kyle threw up in front of Kenny for the first time was still very vivid in their minds. Their blood was everywhere, from Kenny's chest and Kyle's mouth. Kenny drew a steaming bath and threw Kyle in, clothes and all, tossed variegated colors of leaves and flowers in with him and made him stay in there for two hours.

"Kenny, who else knows about… you?" Kyle had asked, as Kenny poured more hot water and oils over his hair. Incense burned his nostrils.

"Just Karen. And you now. And…"

"And?"

"...Cartman."

"Cartman knows?!"

Kenny had to explain everything from the beginning. Being younger and just waking up in his bed when it happened, then gradually the pain of the injuries stuck around for awhile after the tree incident and whoever was there could enjoy the spectacle. Including 10-year old Cartman.

When Kyle returned home feeling like an overcooked pork chop, he tried to smoke out of his bedroom window. Black bile came up and he put the cigarette down. He didn't want it anymore.

Sparky stood up again, wagged his tail as a patrol car rolled up the driveway. The driver immediately zeroed in on the boys. He walked out and approached them.

"Are ya'll memebers of the Marsh residence?"

Kenny pointed at Kyle, "He _technically_ is."

Officer Goldberg, as his uniform dictated, he leveled his gaze at Kyle. The other officer walked around. "Where'd that bruise on your face come from, son? You been fightin'?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. He hated the accusatory tone cops took up sometimes, "No. It was an accident."

"Okay, okay. What's your name?"

"Kyle Broflovski."

"And you?"

"Kenny McCormick," Kenny went to shake his hand. Officer Goldberg didn't take it.

"You two were recently at the River Funeral Home?"

"Yes, sir," they both replied, hearts beating fast, synchronized.

"Well, unfortunately, everyone there is dead."

Kyle peered at them, he gripped the rag tighter, "Is this some kind of fucking joke?"

"No, son, everyone that _works there_ is dead. They've been dead since before the Marsh funeral, stacked up on each other in the attic like old Cabbage Patch dolls."

…

 **COLORADO JUDICIAL COURT**

 **Re: Kyle D. Broflovski**

 **Your official court date has been scheduled for July 13, 2017, at 2:30 pm to appeal for the name change process. Please bring your birth certificate and current driver's license or state ID. You must prepare a statement disproving criminal intent and reasoning behind a legal name change.**

 **Contact the court 48 hours in advance if you cannot make your appointment.**


	14. Solar Gap

**A/N: It's another short one, sorry!**

 **January 14, 2017**

Kyle could hear generators down the street, not as loudly as Ike's sudden violin playing from across the gap between their two houses. The window panes shook.

"I fucking love you, Kyle. I love you so much," Stan's breath was a staccato, struggling.

"I love you too, Stan."

"I'm sorry I was kind of a dick."

"It's okay," Kyle inhaled deeply, cupping Stan's face, "I'm sorry, too."

"I hope you're not just saying that because I'm fucking you right now."

"No, but it helps," Kyle smiled.

…

Wrapped in blankets and body seemed to ward off the crawling frost on the windows. Kyle laid back with his head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes closed. He could still feel where the tear tracks on his face were, just as they were about to finish.

(dont cry dont cry)

Stan's head was in his lap, bundled up like a satiated kitten. Kyle absentmindedly scratched his scalp and stroked his hair- he could swear he could hear his boyfriend purring.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah, baby?"

He could feel Stan's lips curl into a small smile against his leg.

"I know we couldn't biologically, but do you think we could have kids?"

Kyle's hands stopped, he looked down at Stan, who was staring forward at the wall, deep in thought.

"We _are_ kids."

"Yeah, I know. But I mean, someday."

"Someday is a long ways away, Stan."

"Doesn't mean we can't talk about it."

"I suppose not," Kyle said. He waited for Stan to dive into a long-winded explanation, usually very defensive of his thoughts, but Stan said nothing.

"Well?" Kyle pressed.

"I don't know."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

"I don't know. Now that I think about, I think I'm scared I might be like my dad."

Kyle laughed, although he suddenly realized he had the same fear "Should I call you Randy Jr.?"

"Fuck no. Please don't."

"Oh, that's not so bad though, you have a good dad," Kyle resumed gently running his fingers through Stan's hair, "And everyone gets traits from their parents that they don't want. Sometimes I open my mouth and my mom comes out."

"You can say that again."

"Hey now-"

Stan turned over and looked up at Kyle, put a hand to his face, "-you're beautiful, by the way. I don't care what comes out of your mouth."

Kyle rolled his eyes, "Stop…"

"You're right though. I shouldn't be scared. I'm me. You're you. And I'm me because you're you and you're you because I'm me."

"...what?"

"I don't know, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just…" Kyle leaned down, wrapped an arm underneath Stan and the other arm over him; brought him up and kissed him squarely on the mouth, "We should probably sleep. It's been a long ass day."

Stan stretched his fingers over Kyle's chest, "Yeah. I'm really tired. I am so so tired."

…

 **June 13, 2017**

 **2:48 am**

Green Converse shoe descending deeply onto the pedal, almost to the floor, down a dark and empty dirt road, windows down, radio shut off. He eyed the passing ditches as they flickered by in his headlights; considered twisting his elbows and veering off, let himself crash into whatever was there, let someone find his bloodied face halfway through the windshield.

Rows of cornfields emerged, surrounded him on both sides and he remembered all the times that fog took over their morning commute and the school bus ambled along with its flashing light on top. That one morning. The one where he held Stan's hand romantically for the first time. He wanted to ask if he could kiss him again. Wished he could look over at the passenger seat and ask him to kiss him now.

 _Kids,_ he sped up more, _we were just kids._

No one had any idea that the people who embalmed Stan would have to be embalmed soon too. Or cremated. The detective had shoved photos of their bodies in Kyle and Kenny's faces, asked if they smelled anything, asked if they thought all the deaths, theirs and Stan's, were connected.

"I'm sure you suspect Stan," Kyle stated, dryly, impatient, sarcastic.

Kenny had cast a worried glance at him, "What about that one woman we saw? With the… tongue thing?"

"You mean this woman?" The detective gave them another picture of, indeed, that woman, whose face was now bust open, like something was trying to crawl out of her face like a chick from an egg.

Kyle closed his eyes and looked away, shuddered.

"This really sucks, sir," Kenny said, squinting at the detective and the officer standing in the corner, "But we have our own to take care of. We just don't have any information for you. Sorry."

Stan was buried later that day in a harried minute as if he wasn't put in the ground immediately some curse would sway over him and wedge itself into his cold pores; the bells chiming from the nearby church.

As Kyle continued to speed, he pictured again the image of the casket sinking. The temptation to destroy himself gnawed into his heart as an upcoming bridge came into view. He could drive into the water, drown and be at peace. Just end it.

A flashback of Ike almost drowning in mud popped up, severing the fantasy. He slowed down. Ike would miss him if he drove off the bridge now.

He thought of how if the roles were reversed: if it was some alternate universe where it was Kyle being lowered into the earth with Stan watching, he wouldn't want him to be driving around at 3 am contemplating killing himself. He would want Stan to take care of himself, very much how he had wanted him to in this universe, while he was still alive.

Finally, he slowed down and came to a complete stop, stepped out of the Jeep, and walked to the bridge's railing. A wind ran through the forest that lined the river, making the trees look like dark, swaying beasts.

He thought of Kenny, how good he had been to him lately, how like a rock he could be, even though he was feeling the pain of losing Stan too.

Kyle didn't want to make Kenny have to identify his body the way he did for Stan, though it would more than likely be Kyle's parents having to do it and not Kenny, Kenny wouldn't want to see him dead in any form. He felt so weak next to Kenny now, his life tangible, maybe meaningless. One wrong move and Kyle could be gone forever, no Satanic or superhero powers could save him.

Still waters reflected the full moon.

Kyle climbed back into the car and pulled his phone out of the cupholder, paused for a minute, staring at the lock screen of himself, Stan and Sparky before swiping.

 **3:18 am- Kyle: Hey Kenny… I know that you probably won't see this until you wake up, but I just want you to know that I'm so appreciative of everything you've done for me the past couple of months, and even before then. I remember when you tried to comfort me when I didn't make the all-state team. I remember when you tried to take my books so I could tie my boots. I remember your face when you dragged me out of the shed after that fucking raccoon attack. You said that I don't remember everything, but I remember those moments. I remember a lot. What you do doesn't go unnoticed, and I honestly wish there were more people in the world like you. Thank you… for everything. I don't know what I'd do without you.**

He sighed, placed the phone down, ran his hands over his hair, grabbed his keys, and started the ignition. Surprisingly, he heard vibrating coming from the cupholder.

 **3:21 am- Kenny: I don't know what to say… thank you 3 You really didn't have to say those things but thank you.**

 **I don't know what I'd do without you either.**

 **3:23 am- Kyle: Whoa holy shit I didn't think you'd be up… and well I mean it :) so just take it lol**

 **3:24 am- Kenny: Lol yeah I just kinda randomly woke up, idk why**

 **3:25 am- Kenny: But don't worry, you didn't wake me up or anything, you're gucci**

 **3:26 am- Kyle: Lol okay welp get some slep**

 **3:27 am- Kenny: :)**

Kyle wasn't ready to go home just yet.

He drove down to Stark's Pond and walked out on the deck where he and Stan would fish. Taking off his shoes, he thought of his 13th birthday and the jolt of the hook going into his skin.

 _I guess you could say you... reeled me in,_ Kyle would joke about it every year.

Stan would frown and shake his head, _Stop! I still feel bad about that._

Kyle walked to the edge of the deck, swatting at mosquitos that landed on his arms, and stared into the black water. He couldn't remember how deep it went. It didn't matter.

He turned around, his back to the world, and fell, letting the cold water envelop his body, mask his face. Holding his breath, keeping his eyes closed, he pretended he was his own planet in cold space, warbling sounds of swimming fish like searing stars and the vastness of open water a visceral portal.

(if i cried here)

Eventually, his body floated up to the surface and he crawled out, lied down on the deck, wet clothes seeping into the wood, and stared over the stars.

" **Solar Gap" by Hinds - watch?v=Wqx-Mwn6pEg**


	15. Body

**A/N: Hi, I'm back :) The semester is over now so I'm hoping to start updating this weekly. Thank you for reading! -Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay**

 **...**

 **Stan Marsh journal entry (date unknown)**

 **I want to listen to your body living outside of me but also inside me in my chest and neck and toes, legs like beams of moon, and all your hair in my mouth and your eyes in my stomach, peels lurching and when I kiss you I taste sickness and when I see your face, I think your tongue and your teeth and my tongue and my teeth on a bible on a bridge in the river in the sewer in the sand cursing names and caskets bred into lonely pipes of dreaming to caress the lobes of your ears and hold your head against my chest so you can feel, feel how much my heart hurts and hear how fast it raptures when you come near and the moss in my ribcage-**

 **I just want you to know.**

 **The eye of the forest is the eye of my heart, mapping out my faith, watching the birds in my stomach and their drenched wings of acid, beautifully useless, now concerned with vitality and the color red, glass beads coated in sugar-**

 **Did I dream last night?**

 **I don't think I did.**

…

Kenny lies belly-down on the mattress, feet in the air, hugging a stained pillow. His right foot is cramping from squeezing his toes together. He rolls his ankles in circles until the cramp goes away. But now his left foot is cramping. He keeps his feet still, suspended in air until they go numb. He finally sets his feet down, shifts his weight so the left half of his body is immersed in sheets and his left foot is hanging off the side of the bed.

(who owns this body)

He glances out the window, debris floats over the grass with the wind. In the distance he can hear dogs barking, neighbors yelling. He wants to get out of this small room, with its shag carpeting forever stained by marijuana smoke and beer stains and bad memories.

He wanted to feel alive again, amidst all this death, sourness like the breath of a sick child. Breathing heavily, he flopped onto his back and grabbed his phone. Anything. He would do anything.

 **2:48 am- Kenny:** **You up?**

 **2:50 am- Bebe: I WAS sleeping. What do you want? I have a feeling I already know tho**

 **2:51 am- Kenny: Come over. Or I can come over there. Or I could pick you up and we can go somewhere**

 **3:06 am- Kenny: Hello?**

 **3:07 am- Bebe: Another time**

 **3:08 am- Kenny: This is something that needs to be taken care of right now**

 **3:08 am- Bebe: Yeah I can't help you with that. And Wendy's staying here now so that would just be hella rude**

 **3:10 am- Kenny: Oh… well… What's Wendy up to?**

 **3:10 am- Bebe: FUCK OFF**

 **3:11 am- Bebe: It's you and your hand tonight dude. Sorry not sorry**

 **3:12 am- Bebe: But you can come sometime this week. I need to talk to you anyway**

 **3:13 am- Kenny: Oh god**

 **3:13 am- Bebe: What?**

 **3:14 am- Kenny: If you're pregnant please just tell me now**

 **3:14 am- Bebe: Haha, not pregnant**

 **3:15 am- Kenny: Not something to "haha" about regardless**

He throws the phone aside and runs his hands over his face, digging his palms into his eyes. He tossed and turned in the blankets, pulling them up between his legs, holding the pillow on his face.

He itched.

It was a deep itching, crying into the walls of his ribs and into his groin and back to his heart, his insides a map of intimate wounds and breaks, his outsides a skin suit of bruises and places that had been torn but never kissed, dead but alive, pulling on his hair and feeling the scalp sting, his heart slow and dull, pushing the pillow into his face until his chest shrunk.

The phone screen lit up as he threw the pillow to the side, his nostrils burning and chest aching. Maybe it would be Bebe changing her mind.

To his surprise, it was Kyle.

 **3:18 am- Kyle: Hey Kenny… I know that you probably won't see this until you wake up, but I just want you to know that I'm so appreciative of everything you've done for me the past couple of months, and even before then. I remember when you tried to comfort me when I didn't make the all-state team. I remember when you tried to take my books so I could tie my boots. I remember your face when you dragged me out of the shed after that fucking raccoon attack. You said that I don't remember everything, but I remember those moments. I remember a lot. What you do doesn't go unnoticed, and I honestly wish there were more people in the world like you. Thank you… for everything. I don't know what I'd do without you.**

He read and reread three times before trying to type a reply.

"Come over." Backspace. (really kenny you thirsty fuck why would he want to sleep with you when stan-)

"I love you." Backspace. (fuCK no)

"Haha thanks dude." Backspace. (not something to haha about backspace space backspace just say what you mean asshole)

3 **:21 am- Kenny: I don't know what to say… thank you 3 You really didn't have to say those things but thank you.**

 **I don't know what I'd do without you either.**

 **3:23 am- Kyle: Whoa holy shit I didn't think you'd be up… and well I mean it :) so just take it lol**

 **3:24 am- Kenny: Lol yeah I just kinda randomly woke up, idk why**

 **3:25 am- Kenny: But don't worry, you didn't wake me up or anything, you're gucci**

 **3:26 am- Kyle: Lol okay welp get some slep**

 **3:27 am- Kenny: :)**

He wonders what it would be like to have him there at that moment, sharing the body.

"Just take it," he smiles to himself, gradually reaching into his boxers and feeling the wiry area before the pronounced echo of sirens and crimson and blue lights filled his bedroom.

"What the fuck," he mutters, pulling his hand out, the snap of elastic hitting his skin. "Here we fucking go again."

He rolls off the mattress and pulls a long-sleeved black shirt over his head, black sweatpants, and finally, the black mask, covering all of his skin. He hasn't been able to fix the hole and bloodstains on his suit yet, and if he had to look like typical trailer trash running around at 4 am, then so be it.

He slips out the window and into the streets.

(ive never owned this body)

…

Skeeter's Bar was so loud sometimes that Kenny figured, if he set up camp on the roof, no one would notice. And he was right. It wasn't much, but he had a plastic bin with some blankets and pillows, so if he didn't feel like going home just yet, he could lay out and look at the sky. He didn't care how frigid it could get. It was better than World War 3 at home.

He leans over the side, lays his head down on his crossed arms like a cherub on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and watch the various drunks waddle their way out to their Uber or just walk home. Turned out that that night he wasn't needed. He didn't even get shot this time. Just two drunks messing things up at the 7-11.

Among that night's waddling drunks, he recognizes a yarmulke. Without thinking, he jumps down in front of Gerald Broflovski and pulls him into the alley.

"What the fuck, who the fuck, what the fuck are you doing, asshole?" Gerald's eyes are swollen, dehydrated, and red; Kenny can tell even from the dim streetlights. He whips out his dagger, the one Kyle had found in his box, points it at Gerald's throat.

"I will only say this once you piece of shit, so open your fucking ears. If you ever lay a hand on Kyle Broflovski again, I will fucking kill you. I don't care if it's even a shove. If it happens again, I'm slitting your fucking throat."

Gerald smiles, his hands up by his head, "Broflovski? He won't be a Broflovski much longer. Little shit is changing his name to Marsh."

Kenny hesitates for a moment. He knew that that would happen someday, but wasn't sure when. He shook his head and brought the dagger closer to Gerald's throat, "Whatever. If you ever hit Kyle Marsh again, you're dead. Got it?"

"Jesus, fuck, okay." Gerald throws his hands over his face.

"Good." Kenny slowly backs away, turns on his heel to leave the alley and finally go to sleep. He's had enough for today.

Gerald calls after him. "Hey, aren't you that Mysterion kid? You're still around?"

Kenny stops, looks out at the quiet street, the towering trees in the field ahead, "Yes."

"Well, what kind of hero threatens to kill people?"

(ive been wondering that myself)

Looking back over his shoulder at the intoxicated middle-aged man, he can't help but wonder how similar Kyle will look when he's that age, "What kind of father beats his kid?"

Gerald says nothing, leaning against a trash can for support.

Kenny looks back out at the trees, the black sky, "I think we both know the answer to each other's questions."

Before Gerald can say anything else, Kenny scales the wall of Jimbo's Guns and disappears to the next roof.

…

 **Kyle Broflovski's journal**

 **June 16, 2017**

 **Did I dream last night?**

 **I know I did but it felt so real.**

 **I think I talked to Stan yesterday.**

 **I talked to Stan yesterday.**

 **He sat on the edge of my bed and got mud everywhere and wires were poking out of his mouth and the furrows in his neck fluctuated as he spoke. He was barefoot and his fingers were bony, his nose was gone.**

 **Then he said he was happier now than he was with me.**

 **He's better off without me, I knew it, I've always known it.**

 **I looked down at my own wrists and they were cut open with strings coming out, like puppet strings and I pulled and they were bloody and I pulled more and I saw the white fatty tissue clinging to it and I just kept pulling and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulle ed p u lled I pu llledd I pulled an and I**


	16. Side A

**June 21, 2017**

A knock on the door.

Kyle opened up to see Sharon on the steps, clutching a small and flat package. He rubbed his eyes, still recovering from an impromptu four-hour nap, and stepped aside.

"Hi Mrs. Marsh, you can come in."

She shook her head. "I just wanted to stop by and give you this," she reached out with the package.

"What is it?" he asked, taking it and turning over the brown sleeve in his hands.

"A birthday card… from Stan. I found it in his closet."

"Oh," he said, tucking it under his arm, "Thank you for bringing it."

Sharon gave a curt nod and smiled, "How's your mom and brother?"

"They're okay. Dealing with me and everything. How are you?"

"One day at a time."

"Yeah…"

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Let me know if you need anything. _Anything,_ okay? You just call us."

"Thank you." Kyle wished he could tell her how much he needed Stan back.

She gave Kyle another sad smile before turning around and walking back across the lawn to her house.

Kyle closed the door, walked over to the couch, and drew a blanket around his shoulders before sitting down. It was a brick in his hands.

With a shaking hand, he tore off the top, reached in and found another envelope, bright green, with his name in Stan's small handwriting. Opening that with a now sweating hand, he pulled out a blue, white, and green birthday card with holographic lettering that read "YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALL THE FEELINGS." He opened it, the inside read:

"You're everything I always wanted and needed. I'm so happy I get to call you mine. Happy birthday," in gold calligraphy.

At the bottom, in black ink: "Love, Your Super Best Boyfriend, Stan." Below that, he wrote "Sparky" with an arrow pointing to a drawing of a paw print.

Kyle felt like he might puke. Stan had everything planned out. If Kyle hadn't been so damn scared of their future, they might have been okay.

(but i had to fuck it up)

In the brown envelope, there was a cassette tape with song titles written on the insert and lined papers stapled together. A letter.

He smoothed the papers across his lap and began to read.

 **May 26, 2017**

 **Hey Kyle :)**

 **I can't believe another year has gone by and we're 18. Even though I've known you my whole life. I find new reasons to love you every year. More like** **every day.** **Every second.**

 **And because I'm mushy, I burned you a CD. Then I recorded it onto a cassette so we can listen to it in my car that you hate, haha.**

 **Tonight, I'm hoping to take you out. I'm hoping that we can go somewhere nice and I'll spill my guts out to you, and you'll say what I hope you'll say.**

 **Or, I'm an idiot and couldn't wait to ask you so you already know what I'm talking about here.**

 **Happy birthday, Kyle.**

 **I love you.**

 **Stan**

 **SIDE A**

 **"Saturday" / Sparklehorse**

 **This is the perfect introduction to how I feel, or rather, how long it took me to tell you how I feel. I was so confused for so long (even though my default state of being is in confusion), it took a lot of nights just lying awake and thinking. I thought it was just one of the puberty things. All that thinking and overthinking led to thinking about you and I realized I needed to tell you. I held it in for so long, and it was so painful… but that first time we kissed made it all worth it.**

 _ **I'd walk to Hell and back to see you smile, on a Saturday**_

For as long as Kenny could remember, the McCormick family had to be creative to get the things they wanted or needed. In his father's case, it was the want. He was a lopsided Robin Hood, taking from the rich and not having to give to the poor because he was The Poor. It seemed wrong to Kenny still, considering everyone in South Park had middle-class wealth at best except for Token's family. Just like his own father, he had seen Stan's parents, Butter's parents, Clyde's father, Cartman's mother, all come home from work exhausted, only wanting to flop onto the couch with a T.V. dinner as anyone else would. The only other person that was the upper-middle-class was Gerald Broflovski, but he often helped the scummiest of clients and took no pride in his work.

Kenny's father hated Kyle's father. Kenny could tell by the squinting of his eyes, the body language of sizing each other up: it was a mutual distaste, forced to be civil to keep this tight-knit neighborhood from unraveling.

Kenny remembered being six or seven, sitting in the passenger's seat of Stuart McCormick's truck in front of that familiar forest-green house. It was the Broflovski's 4th of July barbeque. Kenny stared at his reflection in the side mirror (OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR) while his father smoked, the windows rolled down, the air a tie-up between the smell of smoke and gravel.

He tapped the cigarette out in the cupholder and smirked at his second-born, estranged son. "Your mom needs to cut your hair," he said, grabbing the blonde locks. "You're getting a mullet."

Kenny shrugged him off. "No, 'cause she puts a bowl on my head and cuts around it. It makes me look like a dweeb."

"Hey, be nice. She does her best."

Kenny looked out at the road. The sounds of Bruce Springsteen music, laughter, and chatter floated over. He knew his mom did her best. At the moment, Carol was at home, nursing his ill older brother with saltine crackers, chicken noodle soup, and ginger ale, while they both sweltered in the heat, the only relief coming from a single electric fan.

"So you remember what I told you. Got your bag?"

"Mm-hm." Kenny pulled an old drawstring backpack from the floor.

"Good. As I'm talking to the other grown-ups, you take a couple of trips to the cooler and grab what you can. Coke, lemonade, water, mostly water. And grab some beer for your old man, too," said Stuart, patting his belly. "It's been awhile since I've had a cold beer."

"Two days isn't that long," Kenny muttered under his breath.

"Don't do that shit. C'mon, Kenny, if you're gonna be a little asshole, at least speak up so you sound like you mean it. You're too damn quiet all the time. You wanna be a wallflower the rest of your life?"

"What's a wallflower?" It sounded pretty to him.

"No one to dance with. You're just in the background. People will forget about you."

"Oh." He pulled the bag tighter into his lap. Wallflower. Forgettable. (they always forget)

"Instead of being a background character, Kenny, be more like… uh, what's your favorite animal?"

"Opossum."

"An op- what? I thought you would say a shark or a dinosaur or something."

"Sharks and dinosaurs are cool. But I like opossums best."

"God damn it, no wonder that son of a bitch has been hanging around the house. You been feedin' it?"

"Who? Mr. Possy?"

"God damn it," Stuart repeated, he stubbed out the cigarette on the dashboard. He had Carol's senior photo, faded orange from the sun, wedged int he glass in front of the speedometer. "Whatever. Just sneak in there like the little opossum you are, and get dad a beer or two, okay?"

"Okay."

"And don't let that Cartman kid see you. He'll rat us out. Kid's an asshole. Kyle too. I can already tell, he's gonna be just like his dad."

" **I'll Be Your Man"/ Hinds**

 _ **I'll clean your blood of all the venom. I'll be your man.**_

 __ **I'll always be your man, no matter what. I hope you know that.**

It was the first time Kyle had visited Kenny at work in a while. The other few times he felt awkward and unwelcome. Kenny wouldn't talk much to him and Stan, he was running around between cars from 8 to 7 every day. Too damn busy. They stopped visiting after they saw Kenny mouth the word "fuck" as they walked in.

But things were different now. Butters was there, helping Kenny with everything from holding the flashlight to rotating the tires. Kenny had been right- he was a fast learner, smarter than people gave him credit for.

Kyle hung out in the waiting room, oil and gasoline fumes clung to the air, someone taped NAPA posters to the wood-paneled walls, a coffee table sat in the middle, littered with two-year-old magazines. He picked up one with Britney Spears on the cover and flipped through. Small Tupperware bowls filled with hot stew sat on the floor next to him. "The Power of Love" by Huey Lewis and the News played on the shop's radio. A low buzzing resounded on the other side of the wall, reminding Kyle of a tattoo parlor.

"I need a new tattoo," he muttered to himself, flipping through the photo set of Britney smiling in a field of sunshine with her sons, thinking about how much Stan was twitching when he got the dog paw scarred onto his wrist. Every time the artist lifted up the needle, Stan's leg jolted.

"Sorry," she said, "Everything's connected, and wrists are really sensitive."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Stan replied, sipping root beer out of a can with a straw.

Kyle rolled his eyes and looked over at the art prints on the wall, the shelf with at least ten cacti on it. The artist, Catherine, or Cat for short, cleared her throat then and said, "My friend deals with a lot of shit, and when she starts to feel like she might hurt herself, she comes here. She tells me about what's going on in her life and I give her a tattoo. It's called pain therapy."

Stan looked down at his wrist while she spoke, wiping away excess ink, "That's pretty cool, actually. If I did that, I'd probably have fucking sleeves."

"You'd look good with sleeves," Kyle had said.

Kenny and Butters opened the door, Butters wearing clean jeans and a Hufflepuff tee shirt.

"Siesta time!" He grabbed his keys off a nearby desk and twirled them on his finger.

"Where are going, Butters?" asked Kyle, even though he was looking at Kenny, who was wiping his grease-streaked face with a rag.

"Oh, you're gonna love this, Kyle," he threw the rag aside and put his hands on his hips. "Go ahead, Butters."

Butters hesitated, "When you say it like that, Ken, it makes me think that Kyle _isn't_ going to love what I'm about to say."

"Oh, just tell me already."

"Butters has a lunch date… with Heidi Turner."

"Shut up, no way," Kyle laughed, putting the magazine back on the table. He had a feeling they would try again, having been an on again off again couple throughout middle and high school.

"Yeah, apparently that talk I had with him about journeying outside of this petri dish didn't work," Kenny said.

"Hey, I love her, and I'm sorry, but," Butters looked over to Kyle, "After everything that's happened these past few weeks, I don't want to… you know."

"Yeah, I get it," Kyle said quietly. "Have a good time, Butters."

"Thanks. See ya later, fellas!" Butters twirled his keys again and walked out the glass door, bells chiming over him. Kenny locked the door behind him.

"Welp, that's not how intense that conversation was supposed to end," he said, turning off the "OPEN" sign.

Kyle shrugged, "It's whatever."

Kenny put his fists in his pockets and sat down next to him.

"So what's up, Brof- Kyle?"

"I brought you some lunch," Kyle reached down and picked up the stews and plastic forks in their Ziploc bag. "It's my mom's beef stew. She makes it every Monday night. I fucking love it."

"You didn't have to," Kenny said, but he took the bowl anyway. "Any particular reason?"

"I just wanted to see you."

"It's only been a couple of days. Holy shit, this is good," he said, raising the fork to his mouth again.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm used to seeing you every day now, so two days feels like a long time."

Kenny looked down at his feet for a moment. By God, Kyle actually missed him. He set the bowl down on the coffee table. "Do you want a drink? I've got Pepsi, lemonade, water…"

"Sure, Pepsi's good."

"You got it," Kenny reached into the mini-fridge under his desk, brought them out each a can.

"This is gonna make me burp a lot, I'm sorry," Kyle popped open the top.

"No apology needed because honestly, same."

A few minutes passed, the two silently eating and drinking, top 80s hits playing in the background. Kyle's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Sheila.

 **12:36 pm- Maternal Unit: Where are you? Wendy came to the house looking for you**

"Why would Wendy be looking for me?" Kyle asked out loud.

Kenny leaned over and looked at the screen, "Maybe she wants to say 'bye' before she leaves."

"She doesn't leave for a few days. It's gotta be something else."

"Do you need to go?"

"No, I wanna stay here."

 **12:38 pm- Kyle: I'm working w Kenny right now. Be back for dinner**

"You sure?"

"Absolutely," he slid the phone back into his pocket, "I've kinda been wanting to talk to you about some stuff."

Kenny took another swig, wiped his mouth with his arm, "Like what?" He tried to say as cool as possible, but if he had been wearing a heart monitor, he'd be fucked.

"Did you… Did you confront my dad the other night? I mean, I can't think of who else it would be considering he said it was Mysterion, but he was also drunk, so…"

"Yeah, it was me,"

"Oh god, why? Dude, he was freaking the fuck out."

"I couldn't help it. I saw him and I remembered what he did to you, and I just… saw red."

"Okay, well, I appreciate it, but I don't need you to be fighting battles for me, okay? You've got your own to deal with. I can take care of myself."

"Can you?"

" _Yes,_ I can. I'm not going to be the Aunt May to your Spider-Man."

"If anything, you'd be Mary Jane."

"Peter Parker's girlfriend?"

"Yes, well, wait, no. Only because of your hair. No other reason."

"Oh, okay… Sure, I guess."

"Um, this was really thoughtful of you," Kenny said suddenly. He handed Kyle the now empty bowl, "It was really good. Thank you."

"Cool, I'm glad you liked it," he snapped the lid on and put it back on the floor, "And you're welcome… So, what now? What do you usually do on your lunch hour?"

"Usually, I'll nap in my car. I don't get a lot of sleep at night, so… yeah. Sorry, that's boring. But since you're here, we can do something else."

"Actually, a car nap sounds amazing right now."

"Seriously?"

"Dude, yes. I am so fucking tired."

"Ha, okay then."

As they made their way out to the truck, Kyle received another message from Sheila.

"I call shotgun!" Kyle reached for the handle.

Kenny groaned. They got inside, rolled the windows down, and leaned the seats back. He looked at the message.

 **12:43 pm- Maternal Unit: When you get a chance, Wendy wants to talk to you. I think you should consider what she has to say.**

"Hm," he said, before putting it away.

"What?" asked Kenny. His fingers interlaced across his stomach.

"Nothing, just my mom."

"How is your mom?"

"She's okay. Uh, how's yours?"

Kenny shrugged. "Could be better. She's dealing with my dad's bullshit right now. He's been giving Karen a hard time because she has to go to summer school."

"Summer school! Why?"

"She's failed chemistry twice now, and I don't know, she just really struggles with it."

"I could tutor her."

"I know you could, but I won't ask you to."

"You don't have to because I'm offering."

"You barely even know my sister."

"Well, the good thing about chemistry is that it creates _bonds_."

"I will kick you out of this truck, Kyle."

"No, you won't," the sun shifted, they pulled the visors down to get the shine out of their eyes.

"Would you actually tutor her? She really needs help."

"I'd love to tutor your sister, Kenny. Maybe she just needs a different way of learning it, who knows."

"Well, I… I really appreciate it. Thanks."

"It's no problem, really. Speaking of learning, I've been looking into your powers."

"Huh? You mean like research?"

"What else would I mean? And yeah, it's interesting. Most of the things I find about immortality are speculative though. A lot of fictional stuff but there's a lot of truth in fiction. And there are so many legends from so many cultures… I haven't been able to find one that specifically matches what you've been through, so, my only logical conclusion is that you're just special."

"Sounds underwhelming when you put it like that," Kenny closed his eyes. He loved listening to Kyle talk, but his voice was also smooth enough to put him to sleep. And he needed to sleep.

"Nah. You're your own story, Kenny."

Kyle closed his eyes too. He felt warm.

They woke to Butters and Heidi leaning in the windows.

"C'mon, boss, rise and shine," Butters nudged Kenny's shoulder, "We still gotta power wash that engine on that Toyota."

"Hey, Kyle. Long time, no see," Heidi looked down at him.

He rubbed his eyes, "Oh, hey Heidi."

"Those naps are never long enough," Kenny opened the door. He gave Kyle's arm a squeeze before going back into the shop with Butters.

"So, how are you?" Kyle sat up.

"I'm good! How have you been?"

Kyle gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded curtly, "Yep."

She tucked a tendril of chestnut hair behind her ear. "I heard about what happened to your brother. Is he okay?"

"Better now. Still fucked up though."

"Yeah, I saw they put up police tape around that sinkhole or whatever."

"I know," he said. He put his hand on the door. She moved aside so he could get out. "It doesn't seem right, but I don't know what else can be done."

"Sometimes I feel like this whole town is sinking," her eyes turned glossy, solemn, "Like every day we get pushed further to Hell."

"Um. You okay there, Heidi?"

"Yeah, I don't… I'm sorry." She pinched the bridge of her nose, "My head hurts. It feels like my brain is swelling. I should go home."

"I can take you home if you want."

"No, it's… Kyle?"

"What?"

"I know that you know because it's in the police report, but, I saw Stan on his last night."

Kyle sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "What about it?"

"He was so sad. We tried to get him to come with us, but he said he just wanted to go for a walk. God, he looked so sad…"

"Did he tell you it was my fault?"

She looked up at him. Kyle noticed she looked paler than she was a few seconds ago. "No… Kyle, it's just, I don't remember him having a rope or anything. No backpack, just himself."

"He… he might have had something already set up-"

"-Something seems off about all of this, Kyle. I know I'm overstepping my boundaries but something in my gut is telling me that we're missing something."

Kyle chewed on his lip for a moment. He thought of being in that prison, spitting threats at Cartman, telling him he knew in his gut that he had done something.

"Always go with your gut," he said.

" **You Take My Breath Away"/ Queen**

 **The first time I heard this song, I cried. I thought of you. I mean, every song I hear is about you. This is one of my favorite Queen songs. It's beautiful, like you.**

 _ **Every breath that you take, any sound that you make, is a whisper in my ear, I could give up all my life for just one kiss, I would surely die if you dismiss me from your love**_

 _ **You take my breath away.**_

Kenny walked around Bebe's room, hands in his pockets. She opened her dresser drawer and piled shorts on her arm.

"This is a cute picture," he said, pulling out a bejeweled photo from her bookshelf. It was of her and Wendy on a field trip to the Denver Zoo in fourth grade.

She stuffed some tank tops into a suitcase, "The one of me and Wendy? I like that one too."

"Did you always have this out or did you put it up when she started staying here?"

Bent down over her bed, glittering eyeshadow flickering under the orange bedroom light, she smiled. "I had it put away for a couple of years. But after a while I forgave her and put it back out. It's not her fault she had to move."

"So, you're really doing it then. You're just going to pack up everything and move. I thought you were supposed to work at Sonic this summer. Bring people fries, skate around in a little polyester skirt or something?"

"Hmm, let's see. Move to France with my best friend or spend the summer working and inevitably get pregnant by Mr. Can't Find A Condom Oops Looks Like I'm Gonna Make You A Toaster Strudel."

"Okay, ouch. And noted." For a moment he fantasized about packing everything up himself, leaving town with Karen and starting over somewhere else. He could. Over the past couple of years, he could save some money from the cars he fixed. Enough for a small house, but they would still need a roommate. He wondered if Kyle would move, too. "What did your parents say about it? I mean, it's a pretty big move. Aren't you scared? Do you even know French?"

"I know 'oui' and 'je ne sais pas' because that means 'I don't know'."

"Je ne sais pas," Kenny repeated, "I'll have to remember that one. But seriously, aren't you terrified? This is a whole ass other country here."

"Of course I'm terrified," she smoothed a hand over her clothes, her bangled wrist clanging, "But I don't care if my parents want me to or not. I have to follow my heart. You only get one."

"My heart has the tenacity of a baked potato, I think."

"I don't get it."

"You had to be there."

Kenny placed the photo back next to a hardcover copy of _Alice in Wonderland._ "Oh, cool, I loved this book when I was a kid," he said, touching its spine.

"It's not a book. It's a box, and it has my weed in it."

"Oh." He meandered over to Bebe's vanity. Her makeup was scattered all over like a discontented artist had a fit.

"But that's actual makeup."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me. I'm a princess," he grinned.

"Yeah, Princess Beard, maybe."

" _What?"_

"'Cause you have a beard? On your face?"

"Yes. Yeah, I know what you meant… Who the hell names these things, anyway?" He asked, lifting a bottle of green nail polish, "'My Favorite Martian'?"

A tube of dark red lip gloss: "Hot Sauce?"

A tin of purple eyeshadow: "Finger Prince?"

A compact of bright pink blush: " _Orgasm?"_

She walked over and took it out of his hand, "It's not as easy as you think."

"I bet I could do it."

"Yeah?" She picked up a red lip liner, "Give a name to this one."

"Uh… rouge," he stated, pointing at the liner.

"That's just French for red."

"Looks like we both know more French than we thought we did."

"Try again, McCormick."

"Okay," he looked at the color again. It seemed like a cherry red but saying cherry would be too obvious. He thought of Kyle's hair. He thought of freckles. (it wasnt even that long ago when-) "Chickenpox."

"Ew, chickenpox?! Why?"

"It kinda looks like one of Karen's markers that I used."

"Huh?"

"Karen got chickenpox a few years ago, and my brother and I already had it, so I took her marker, it kind of had that color, and drew dots all myself so she wouldn't feel alone. She didn't take me up on my bullshit, but I think she appreciated the gesture."

Bebe crossed her arms and smiled at him, "Oh yeah, I remember when pretty much all of us had it at the same time."

"Yeah, good times… So what's the real name?"

She squinted at the plastic pencil. "Juicy Cherry."

"Ha."

"I'm gonna call it chickenpox now though."

"Oh god, I just remembered when Kyle was like, the only one not getting sick, and his mom wanted him to get it and get it over with, so she had him stay at my house and had me try to spit in his mouth so he'd get it."

"Is that when it started?" Bebe smirked.

"When what started?"

"Your endless desire to raw dog Kyle."

"… That is a frivolous assumption, ma'am."

"Oh for fuck's sake, sit down, Kenny."

Kenny didn't move, he stared at her, hoping that this 5'4" girl with a pink scrunchie in her hair was fucking with him.

"I said _sit_ ," she shoved her palm in his chest, forcing him to sit on the end of the bed, turned and pulled the chair out from her desk and sat across from him, clasped her hands around her knees. "Kenny, I don't know how you could think that people wouldn't notice."

Kenny swallowed, his eyes watered. "Kyle hasn't noticed."

"Kyle isn't really good at hints. I can say that with authority."

"It's not that Kyle didn't catch your hints, Bebe. He just didn't like you. He didn't like girls yet- oh, wait. I don't even know if Kyle likes girls _now."_

"I thought Kyle was gay."

"He is. Wait, I don't know. He was with Stan for so long, we just kinda went with gay."

"You never asked him?"

"How the hell am I supposed to ask that? 'Hey bro, you gay?'"

"Are _you_ gay?"

"No…"

"So you're bi?"

"I guess. I think I'm just perverted."

"Okay, we're getting off topic," Bebe straightened herself, put a hand behind her neck. "Kenny, I love you. You've been a great friend, and… I shouldn't have been sleeping with you. You've been hurting. You go around and you try to help everyone else but you're like… disintegrating. I think you sleep around because you're looking for intimacy."

"You can stop now," Kenny said in a low voice.

"No, shut up. You play therapist with everyone else, so now I'm doing it to you. You sleep around because you want love and you don't know how else to get it. You have to face the truth, Kenny, or it's going to eat you from the inside out."

Kenny looked down at the carpet. He gripped the sheets. His throat felt dry, crackling. "I… I'm in love with Kyle. And I feel horrible about it. Like, guilty. I don't have the right."

"You don't have the right? How?"

"I don't know. Stan was my best friend, and no one wants to be the guy that's in love with their best friend's boyfriend. And now it's worse. It's so much worse."

"Kenny. I don't want to sound cliche, but you can't help how you feel. You've done all the right things- it's not like you tried to sabotage their relationship or anything. You were respectful. You let Kyle go, I mean, that's actual love."

Kenny stood up. He wanted to go home. "Yeah, I let him go. But now he's back in my fucking life again, and it's like sixth grade all over again."

"You have to tell him."

"That is _insane,_ Bebe. Stan hasn't even been in the ground for two weeks and you think I should tell him _that? It's not the right time."_

"When is there ever an actual right time for anything? This might be your last chance to."

"Why?"

Bebe reached back and tightened her ponytail. "Wendy is going to ask Kyle to move with us. She thinks he's wasting his life here."

"You better be fucking kidding, dude."

"I'm serious. I don't know if he will, but… you better say something soon in case he does."

Reaching down to tighten his shoelaces, Kenny fumed, "Fuck my life."

Bebe extended over him, planted a kiss on the top of his head. "Don't stress. It's not the end of the world."

" **Simple Man"/ Lynyrd Skynyrd**

 **One time you said to me, "I wish I could just be normal." I asked what you meant, and you said you wished you weren't anxious all the time, always overthinking. I told you that there's nothing wrong with you. You didn't believe me.**

 **I want you to know that because of you, I find happiness in all the little things. There was an afternoon where you and I were sitting on my back porch, it was spring, and the sun had come out for the first time in a while. Sparky was sitting in the grass with his face tilted up to the sky, and you were reading a book with your legs across my lap and I remember thinking that this was it. This is happiness.**

 **We can't be normal. We'll never be normal. But we love each other. At least, in that, we're doing something right.**

It had rained earlier that morning. Kyle inhaled the damp air, dribbled the basketball on the wet concrete of the driveway. He shot through the hoop and old rainwater sprayed on his face.

"Ugh," he wiped his face with his tee-shirt. He shook it off and shot again. The ball moved through the net and bounced back down into his hands.

Wendy appeared on the sidewalk and opened her hands.

"Hey, toss it to me."

Kyle bounced it to her, and she dribbled around him, shot for the basket- it hit the rim and fell to the grass.

"That was pretty close," Kyle said, trying to sound extra polite.

"Let me do it again," she said, picking it up, "I was just nervous."

"Nervous?"

"I gotta ask you something," she threw the ball and missed again.

"Shoot. Well, the question I mean."

She circled the ball in her hands, "It's kind of a big question."

"I'm all for big questions."

"Bebe is moving back to Brussels with me."

"Holy shit."

"And… I know you're supposed to go to UCF in the fall."

"I've actually decided not to. I don't think I'll be ready to go anywhere."

"Oh. This will be more difficult to ask now."

"Just ask."

She tossed the ball back to Kyle, "I was going to ask you if you wanted to move back with me. You could get into one of the colleges there… But looking at your face now, it seems I already have my answer."

"Stan's here. My brother's here. Kenny's here. I can't."

"What about just for summer? It might be good for you."

"If I didn't have a court hearing set up next month, I might have."

"Court?"

"I'm getting my name changed… to Marsh. It's the only thing I can do. I looked into, like, actual marriage, but they need proof, like a receipt for a down payment at a banquet hall or something… And I have nothing. This is the only way I can say 'yes' now."

"I see…" She opened her hands for the ball again, shot, and it went through the net this time.

"Nice," said Kyle.

"You can marry someone after they die?" she asked, scratching her elbow.

"People marry cars and shit. Why not dead people?" He threw the ball. It hit the board.

"So…" she pointed at his tee-shirt, "Who's Strawberry Migraine?"

"Oh, they were a band that Stan really liked."

"Were?"

"Van accident. They all died before they could really make it big. It really sucked. Stan wouldn't talk for a week."

"Damn…"

Kyle dissolved into a flashback. The colorful lights, thumping music, Stan leaning on his shoulder, the guy that gave them beer, the X on his hand, the girl with the septum piercing…

"Wendy, do you wanna hang out today? There's something I've always wanted to do and it'd be cool if you came."

Wendy put her hands on her hips and smiled, "Sure, I'm down."

Sitting in the corner with a small purse in her lap, shoulders scrunched, Wendy Testaburger decided she didn't like this place. As soon as they walked in, she decided she didn't like it. She didn't like the trapped humidity, the stickiness, the creaking floorboards, the cubicle where her, Kyle, and the piercer were shacked up.

"Okay, Kyle, I need you to breathe through your mouth for a second so I can clean out your nose," the piercer, a young man with dreads and tattoos on his neck leaned over Kyle with a sanitary napkin and wiped the inside of his nostrils.

"Did your neck tattoos hurt?" Wendy asked.

"Not really. I have a pretty high pain tolerance."

"I do, too," Kyle said, looking up at the man's face, half-covered by a surgical mask. "I may as well be living voodoo doll."

The dream came back, pulling and pulling the strings. A puppet. His fingers twitched as if someone was pulling on them now.

Wendy leaned forward, "You okay?"

"Yeah, just a bit nervous, I guess."

"It'll be over fast. I'm gonna put this rag over your face. Your eyes are gonna water."

"Okay…" He closed his eyes. Crying was becoming a hobby these days. The cloth went over his eyes and a single beam of pressure centered the inside of his nose.

"I'm just trying to find the best spot. I'll let you know when I'm about to pierce."

Wendy slid her hand into Kyle's. She didn't like the place, but Kyle was so excited, she didn't have to heart to say so. When he had said that he wanted to make a change, she didn't think it would be physical. _Maybe he'll work his way to his insides._

Having the cloth over his eyes gave him a memory of being a child that was always sick, his mother with a cool cloth on his forehead. She told him once that if he ate apple seeds, an apple tree would grow in his stomach. He had laid in bed that night, just like this, wondering how it would feel to have petals blossom from his mouth, leaves sprout from his ears. Would his bones be replaced with branches? Or would they stick out of his back like a porcupine?

"Okay, we're going in," the silver needle pushed through flesh- Kyle jolted, sucked in his breath through his teeth. His eyes watered. Relief, a puncture into tension, curled around him.

(so this is what stan was talking about the pain the pain it feels better to feel it on the outside instead o god my insides i cant do this anymore)

" **Carry on Wayward Son"/ Kansas**

 **This song isn't romantic at all, but for us, it kind of is. It made me realize how much I need you. How I've always needed you. And I always will.**

Maybe it was the sensitive beast in him, the observer, the neutral, the petal on a plot of grass, that made Stan watch Kenny in the way that he did. One introvert to another. In the seventh grade, they had gym together. First period.

Kenny always sat on the sidelines in jeans and a tee-shirt, knees apart, elbows leaning against the bleachers. Coach Ferguson had given up pestering him two weeks into the semester.

"If the boy wants to fail, let him fail. That's his God-given right," he explained to the other students.

Stan bounded over to Kenny one day. "Dude, we're gonna play basketball. You love basketball."

"I don't wanna get sweaty," Kenny stated, cracking his neck from side to side.

"So? Like, that's what the showers are for. Everyone gets sweaty."

"You, especially. Why would you wear long sleeves? It's not that cold yet."

Stan pulled the sleeves of his Adidas shirt over his knuckles, "I have a rash."

"Really? I wanna see." Kenny stood up. Stan crossed his arms and stepped back.

"No, it's all sticky and covered in Vaseline. Super gross."

"But I like gross stuff."

"Damn, okay."

"Are you gonna play with us or not?"

Kenny sat back down, "Hell no."

"Oh, come on. If you don't wanna shower, then just put on deodorant and just use a shitton of the Axe body spray. That's what I do."

"I don't have that stuff."

"You left it at home?"

"No, I just don't have it."

Coach Ferguson blew his whistle. "Hey, Marsh! We're starting! Get your cracker jack ass over here!"

"Coming!" Stan lowered his voice for Kenny, "You don't have deodorant?"

He rolled his eyes, shifting on the bench. "It's hard to get some. It's between getting soap and feeling clean or getting food so Karen doesn't go to school hungry."

Coach Ferguson called for Stan again. He trickled back to his classmates, glancing back at Kenny now and then.

The next morning, Stan cornered Kenny in the locker room, when all the other boys had dressed and gone out. A plastic grocery bag was in his hands.

"Here," Stan thrusted the bag toward him before he could brush past.

"What the hell is this?"

"I don't want you to fail so I brought you some of my gym clothes… I think we're about the same size. There's deodorant and body wash in there too… Just let me know if you need more."

Kenny stared at him. He wanted to punch Stan square in the face but he kept his fists to himself.

"I am not a charity case, Stan."

"No, you're not. You're my friend. And friends help each other."

"You sound like you're in fucking kindergarten."

"So? I don't care what I sound like. Just take the shit," he pushed it into Kenny's chest. He smiled. He thought it things could be like how it was, laughing and joking all the time. "You don't even have to thank me. Just play some basketball with me."

Kenny held onto the bag with both arms. Stan walked away, only managing a few steps before Kenny called out:

"Don't be nice to me, Stan."

Stan turned back, his face scrunched up in confusion.

"Why wouldn't I be nice to you? You're my best friend."

"I thought Kyle was your best friend."

"Well… yeah. But he's my boyfriend now."

"Yep," Kenny said as quick a bone break, terser than he expected to sound.

Sometimes Kenny's dreams replays this image over and over again: Stan turns around to face him, eyes peeking out from shaggy black hair, the red lockers warp around him.

Stan says: "You've got something you wanna say to me? Now would be a good time."

The answers always varied. Sometimes Kenny would say something like (you feel sorry for me because you think youre better you think youre so much better than me) or (you knew you fucking knew you could sense i was confused we were both confused and you fucking knew and you stole him right from under me) or just (fuck OFF). Recently, the things he said revolved around (youre dead stan.. … ..stop giving me your clothes)

But in real life, Kenny said nothing, his lips tight and eyes solemn.

Stan pressed: "What?"

Kenny swallowed and said, "Nothing. It's nothing. I was thinking of something else."

" **Always Forever"/ Cults**

 **It's pretty obvious why I picked this song for you. You're my 'always forever.' But I also feel like this song could play in the background of a fervent stabbing and knew you'd appreciate that, haha.**

Stinging skin. His eyes stung all the time. If he could burrow himself into the thin mattress, he would. The other inmates bustled in the hallway, steering clear of Cartman's space. They saw his red eyes. His gray, cracking skin.

Other days had been stronger than this one. Tuesday he was able to throw a ball clear across the lawn and over the fence. Wednesday he couldn't take three steps without pausing for a breath. Thursday he fantasized about slaughtering anyone that so much as glanced at him. He just wanted to hurt someone.

Kenny's letter, as Kenny predicted, pissed him off. Kenny had always been a "sympathy for the devil" type, and Cartman played him like a fiddle until fucking Kyle got back in the picture. Not even Cartman could sever that tie- Kyle had become the fiddle player, but not a good one. He might sit there and pluck the strings with the skill of a dead duck.

"I'm an idiot… Kyle's the fiddle now."

 _I'm going to skin him and make him a tapestry._

A spider crept up on the cinder block wall next to him. He shifted over and grabbed its bulbous body in his thumb and forefinger.

"I've never understood why you fuckers have so many legs. Not like you actually need them."

With his other hand, he pulled off a leg. The spider twitched, the seven remaining legs stirring wildly.

Setting it on the floor, he wondered if spiders could cry. It stayed still.

"Come on, you can move," he nudged it with his pinky. It teetered across the concrete. "You're a little off-balance, I should have figured that." He picked up the spider again and plucked a leg from the other side, set it back down. A deflated spider wobbled away from the bed.

"Cartman." Officer Chakwas appeared in the doorway, "You've got laundry duty."

Cartman slouched over the side of the bed dramatically. "I feel so sick. And I can't leave now, I just made a new friend," he pointed at the spider, "Its name is Kyle."

Chakwas, used to Cartman's psycho-diva antics, stuck his thumbs through his belt loops and shook his head, "Don't try to get out of it."

"I mean it."

"You're lying. You always lie."

His vision blurred as the spider went for the escape, trying faster.

The stomach turns.

Acidity in the nostrils, dirt and blood poured from his mouth.

"What the fuck!" Chakwas jumped back.

Cartman smiled, grains of soil between his teeth and crimson smeared across his lips, "I guess you're right. It's not really sickness if you've done it to yourself."

 _I'm fucked._

" **Die Young"/ Sylvan Esso**

 **I don't want to say that I planned on dying young.**

 **But.**

 **You've stopped me from dying young.**

Kyle Broflovski, everyone's favorite know-it-all, the nerd, the lanky tall kid next door that sometimes doesn't wash his hair enough and can't stand people who brush their teeth in the shower looked at himself in the mirror, the piercing so foreign. When he moved his nose, it hurt a little.

Ike liked it. His parents did not. Gerald said Only Ugly People Get Facial Piercings. Kyle said Well I'm Happy To Be Ugly Then.

He wiggled his nose again, the cartilage burned.

(its not enough no not enough notenough enough)

No more cigarettes because Kenny made it so that he spits up the black stuff every time he does so he uses the burning sticks to create glowing planets in his arms.

38


	17. Side B

**Stan's Playlist:** playlist/2uG26ANbPmdSyEWOwzUHf7

 **(with the exception of the Strawberry Migraine song. They are not a real band)**

" **You Don't Get Me High Anymore"/ Phantogram**

 **I'm noticing that I've been verging into songs that don't necessarily reflect how I feel about you, but they've been playing in the background during certain memories. This one was when Phantogram sent me an email with like… 5 seconds of their new album and I freaked the fuck out because we were driving so you drove around an IHOP parking lot trying to find a wi-fi spot so I could watch the video. This was the song.**

 _"Walk with to the end… stare with me into the abyss… do you feel like letting go? I wonder how far down it is…"_

Stan was singing softly, bass guitar fumbling in his fists, one foot dangling off the couch. Sharon was in the kitchen making a paint-by-number, Kyle was hiding in the corridor. He was coming back from the bathroom, heard Stan, and stayed around the corner so he could listen. Stan never wanted to sing in front of him. He observed when Stan thought he wasn't, and it was in places like this, in the hallway, around the corner, out of sight.

Sharon poked her head in. "Stanley, where's the dog? I haven't seen him."

Kyle jolted, stepped forward as if he was just now walking back to the living room.

"He's been sunbathing outside. I didn't wanna bother him." Stan plucked some strings.

Kyle lowered himself onto the arm of the couch.

"Please don't sit on there, Kyle. It's still kind of busted from Randy sitting on it," said Sharon.

"Oh," Kyle stood up. "Sorry."

"You're fine." she turned to Stan. "I'm going to let him in. He'll get too hot. It's supposed to be in the 90s today."

As soon as she left, Stan put his Fender aside and grabbed Kyle by the waistline, pushing him onto his lap.

"Why would you sit on that hard-ass arm when you can sit on me?" He glided his hand around the back of Kyle's neck and tugged him into a kiss.

"It's not that much different. You're always hard, too."

"And whose fault would that be?"

They heard the sliding glass door from the kitchen, the sounds of Sharon walking outside.

Kyle took Stan by the shoulders and forced him down to the side, climbed on top, kissed him hard, sliding his fingers into Stan's tank top, up his soft stomach.

"Dude," said Stan in between kisses. "My mom might walk back in any second."

"That just makes it more fun."

"You're the fucking devil."

A piercing shriek came from the backyard, causing the boys to clash teeth and bolt up from the couch. "God damn it, bad dog!"

They rushed outside to see Sharon holding Sparky back by the collar. He was drooling, pulling toward something in the grass, paws paddling in the air.

"What's going on?" Stan reached for Sparky.

"There's a dead rabbit." Stan gave Stan the collar. His face dropped.

Kyle stepped forward.

"Ugh," he muttered, pulling his tee-shirt over his nose. The putrid and sweet stink of sulfur pushed to the back of his throat, gagging him.

"Jesus, is it that bad?" Stan asked.

"Don't look," Kyle warned.

There was a rabbit corpse, the bottom half already devoured the end of its spine stuck out. No doubt Sparky caught and killed it.

Stan peered over anyway, glimpsing the bloodied fur and vacant, black eyes. He looked down at Sparky, who was still panting, tail wagging.

"Mrs. Marsh, if you have a shovel and a garbage bag, I'll get rid of it for you," Kyle walked back over to Sharon and Stan, coughing a little. "I need a mask or a towel around my face, though."

Stan started to drag Sparky away. "I'm going to go hose out his mouth."

Kyle walked home, took a shower to get the stench off of him, and came right back. Now they were laying on Stan's bed, watching Vine compilations on his laptop, when Sparky lumbered in through the cracked door. Stan groaned as the "Doberman-wolf mix" (as Stan always claimed him to be) jumped up on the bed with them, wagging his tail.

"What's the matter, Stan?" Kyle paused the video right after " _I saw you hanging out with Caitlin yesterday!" "Rebecca, it's not what you think!"_ and propped himself up on his elbows.

Stan sighed. "I just can't believe how he mangled that rabbit."

"He's a dog, Stan. That's what animals do. They hunt." The canine stretched, squatted down on all fours and put his head on Stan's thighs, tail still thumping on the mattress. Stan didn't move. "Dude, he wants you to pet him."

"I'm afraid he'll bite my hand off."

"Don't be ridiculous. He loves you."

Stan sighed again. He knew Kyle was right. Gingerly, he patted Sparky's head. "I've just never seen him do that before. Like, I've seen him chase squirrels and stuff, but I've never thought about what would happen if he actually caught one."

"Well I guess you have an idea now."

"I still don't really like it."

"What's he supposed to do? He doesn't know any better. All he knows is to eat, sleep, fuck, and protect _you._ It's natural. If Sparky had been the size of that rabbit, and the rabbit the size of Sparky, the rabbit would eat Sparky. It's like that dumb fish game we used to play in the computer lab where you played as the small fish and kept having to eat fish smaller than you to get bigger."

"I just couldn't imagine taking another life so I could keep living. It would break me."

Kyle half-smiled. He scratched Sparky behind the ears. "Animals don't have those kinds of morals. Especially wild ones."

"We're animals."

Kyle leaned down and kissed him, cupping his cheek. "Yeah, we are. If your mom hadn't been around, I would have nailed you on that couch earlier."

"Oh, I know." They kissed more, the air conditioning humming through walls, Stan taking the Old Spice Lavender that Kyle just showered with. Sparky shimmied a little, rubbing his nose on the comforter. Kyle pulled away and planted a soft kiss on the tip of Stan's nose.

"I love you, Stanley Eula Marsh."

"Ugh!" Stan shoved his palm into Kyle's chest and rolled his eyes, "I love you too, Kyle _David_ Broflovski."

"Yeah, I set myself up for that one," Kyle laughed.

Stan nestled his head into the pillow, "So, I have a question for you, Kyle David Broflovski."

"Ha, what?"

"If it meant you could stay alive, would you kill someone?"

"Are you being serious?"

"Yeah."

Squinting at Stan's face, lips straight, eyes focused, Kyle could see he was serious about being serious.

"I mean, that's never going to happen. But… yeah, if someone was threatening me to the point where it was my life or theirs, I would kill them."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"It does… but, if I'm dead, then I won't be able to be with you anymore."

"What if it wasn't even a stranger? Like, what if Cartman was ever released from juvie and came after us?"

Kyle turned cold, his blood stopping in his veins. "I would kill him."

"I don't like the way you said that just now," Stan said, his voice slow, apprehensive, "If you killed him, you would stoop to his level."

"I don't care for that argument. For someone like Cartman, there are no levels. He goes by his own rules. If he ever tried to hurt you, or me, morals be damned. I wouldn't hesitate."

"Damn, okay Kyle. But that will never happen."

"Still, if it did." Kyle unpaused the video.

" _I won't hesitate, bitch!"_

 **"In My Life"/ The Beatles**

 _ **There are**_

 _ **Places**_

 _ **(i remember)**_

 _ **All my life**_

 _ **Life**_

 _ **Though some have changed**_

 _ **Some**_

 _ **Forever**_

 _ **Not for better**_

 _ **Not for better not for better not for better not for better not for better**_

 _ **This song is on every fucking love playlist**_

 _ **I'm an idiot Kyle**_

 _ **I should just die**_

They were in Stan's car, for some reason, speeding down the dark dirt road. Kenny pushed his toes into the pedal down, down, down, down, but they only seemed to float under the sky, satin black robes stretched over swaying fields.

"Ooooooooooo," Kyle's voice rose in his throat, crinkling like an old camera film. He was looking out the window.

"Ooooooooooo," he started again as if Kenny couldn't hear him the first time. They were driving so fast, and he had no idea what from. Something, something.

"Ooooooooooo," Kyle started again, looking at Kenny now, a cigarette in his hand. His fingernails were gone- every time he changed his grip, drips of bleed slithered like crimson worms down his white fingers.

"Ooooooooooo beautiful for spacious skies," he waved at the roof, sending blood and smoke all over the dashboard. "For amber waves of grain," He slapped his palm on the window. "Get it, Kenny? Because there are fucking fields."

"Yeah, I get it. Put your seatbelt on, Kyle."

Kyle took a long drag, inhaling until his eyes were the same color as the orange glowing circle. "Why? I don't want to be here."

" _I_ want you to be here. So, please. Put it on."

"Make me."

"I'm driving."

Kyle turned, placed his elbow on the headrest. He stared at Kenny until he drooled. He ceased blinking. Kenny kept pushing. They had to get away. Of what, he still wasn't sure, but the feeling weighed down his stomach.

"This is it," Kyle said softly, still drooling, focused on Kenny.

"What?"

Kyle opened his mouth again and Kenny heard static. A dark figure stepped out into the road. Kenny swerved and drove directly into a ditch, sending Kyle through the windshield. Glass shattered around the top of his head. Kenny swore he saw his neck twist all the way around.

Kenny loosened his hand on the steering wheel, the pads of his fingers dragging down on the leather, resting on his knees.

"Oh no no no no no no…" he whispered, heart thumping.

He glimpsed in the rearview mirror. The figure, towering in stature, unnaturally still, collapsed into crumpled fabric and dragged itself across the gravel, back into the amber waves of grain.

Kenny pulled the handle, stepped out, breathing heard, not feeling his legs, wondering if they had just been severed off somehow, and he had become mist.

Illuminated by headlights was Kyle's body, mangled, stalks of grain bending over him like they were staring and whispering to one another, telling the soil: _work your way up, disintegrate the flesh, we'll take him now._

His head was turned to the car, his eyes peering directly at Kenny. He walked, dropped to his knees beside him, picked him up and put his head to his chest.

Nothing. Empty. No beat. No sloshing stomach sounds. Nothing.

"Kyle!" he cried out, put a hand on his cheek, "I am so, so sorry, I am so sorry, oh my god."

Whispering behind him: _You'll get over it eventually. Time lets the blood dry._

Static poured from Kyle's mouth again, shocking Kenny awake. Fizzling gray and white lines glowed on the small Panasonic television in their family room. He'd done it again. Coming home from work, completely exhausted, not even remembering driving home, he dove onto the couch and passed out during a _Twilight Zone_ marathon.

(well fuck its no wonder)

(i hope i never dream dream that again)

" **Gut Me"/ Strawberry Migraine**

 _ **For the brain corrosion,**_

 _ **The boy with the yellow sleeves,**_

 _ **Make me an ocean, don't**_

 _ **Don't make me grieve**_

 _ **Go bring your**_

 _ **Halloween somewhere else**_

 _ **If you can't be with me**_

 _ **In my Hell**_

 **Okay, okay, so again, the lyrics don't summarize our relationship. But this was the first song they played when we came out to our parents and ran off to that concert. Everything felt so simple and so complicated at the same time. We were constantly breathing each other, and our parents told us we needed to chill, that this "puppy love" stage wouldn't last, and they were partially right. I'm glad that we're not shy around each other anymore. I'm grateful that we're comfortable together. Instead of puppies, we're like two old basset hounds sleeping next to each other on a patio. I feel like I'm home when I'm with you. Really home.**

 **One time you told me that you get scared around me sometimes because you can't tell what I'm thinking.**

 **I'll be honest, I wish I could know what you're thinking too.**

We threw away Stan's mattress today. It was like disposing of biohazardous material, the way the blood was dried on that quilted pattern… I could barely stand to look at it.

I think I heard him. I think I heard him as if he were inside of it, trapped in the springs, calling "Kyle, Kyle, Kyle…"

There's no way I'll be able to take this much longer. No fucking way. I'm not strong enough. I'm too weak. Always been weak.

" **Zero Gravity"/ Kerli**

 **If you can, listen to this one with headphones on, because the bass is absolutely fucking killer, and I know you're a sucker for a good bass.**

 _ **All the pain in me**_

 _ **No more needs to be expressed**_

 _ **Feels like I can breathe**_

 _ **You lift a burden off my chest**_

 _ **Traces of sadness**_

 _ **No more chain me to the ground**_

 _ **I am limitless**_

 _ **Ever since you came around**_

 _ **I'm as light as I can be**_

 _ **You got me feeling weightless**_

 _ **You take me on an odyssey**_

 _ **You got me feeling weightless**_

 _ **You make me float free**_

 _ **My love for you is endless**_

 _ **No ties are binding me**_

 _ **Oh I'm in zero gravity**_

Strands of hair curtaining her face, Karen McCormick bent over her chemistry homework, clenching her jaw, pencil never stirring. The people in Tweek Bros. lounged about, drowning in wooden chairs typing on their laptops. Kyle had already sucked down his drink (quad espresso, easy vanilla, extra ice, no cream). Karen had yet to touch the frozen hot chocolate that Tweek put rainbow sprinkles on for her. "This is how Craig's little sister likes it."

A wobbling table was the only one left. Kyle took one of the cardboard sleeves from the counter and crammed it under a leg.

"Do you need help? You've written nothing in two minutes," he asked, applying chapstick.

She rattled her head.

"Can you even see anything?" Kyle joked, though it really seemed like she couldn't see well.

"Kind of." Karen tucked a tendril of chestnut hair behind her ear. It fell in front of her face again.

Kyle reached into his pocket and yanked out a hair tie. "Here," he said, placing it in front of her. "Sometimes I need my hair out of my face, too."

She took the tie and pulled her hair back. "Thank you. I forgot mine."

"No problem." He looked at her now bare face: the delicate eyebrows, hooded blue eyes, lips upturned into a smirk. "God, you look so much like Kenny. It's insane."

"I hope you mean that in a good way."

"For sure. Sometimes I wish Ike and I looked more alike so that people would believe we're brothers."

Flipping the pencil over and erasing the previous equation, she said: "All that we love deeply becomes a part of us."

"Wow, you sound like Kenny, too."

"That was Helen Keller," Karen smiled, wiping eraser shavings off her paper with a skinny arm. "But really, it doesn't matter if people think or don't think he's your brother. You've loved him like a brother, so he is… I guess I sound like Kenny, figures. I have to listen to him talk all the time."

Taking the lid off the plastic cup, he tried to glance at what she was writing. They had only been there twenty minutes and would still try to hide her thought process in graphite.

"Kenny's been talking a lot more these days. It's nice." He tipped the cup forward, pouring ice into his mouth.

She furrowed her brow. "He's always been a talker. At least to me. No one ever listens."

Kyle bit down on the ice. All the times Kenny was wordless during social gatherings, if not quiet; often he'd lean to Kyle and make a comment or ask a question- retract as soon as someone else noticed he was talking- pull his hoodie back over his face and become a statue.

"Kenny's a good guy. He deserves to be listened to."

"He probably wouldn't want to be heard all the time. Kenny hates the spotlight."

All the time he knew Kenny, he was never the guy to vault into the center of anything. "He says things when it matters. Speaking of things that matter… are you going to let me see the question you're working on?"

Karen sighed, slumped back, and pushed the paper toward Kyle, "I guess I have to at some point."

"I'm sure it's not that bad." He looked at her drink. "Your whipped cream is melting, dude."

Karen laughed. "Dude? No one's ever called me dude before. Someone has called me a bitch, but not a dude."

"Who called you a bitch? You're only 15. No one should call you a bitch."

Drinking her frozen hot chocolate now, Karen shrugged. "Usually it's other girls at school. But I've been called a whore too. It evens out. I like dude, though."

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. He was already forgetting how savage high school kids could be. "Okay, well, I'm a whore too. A whore for science. Let's look at this homework."

Karen snorted while Kyle smoothed out the packet in front of him: "Okay, this doesn't look too bad- oh, you can only have two electrons in the first shell."

"Mr. Garrison said it's four."

"Well, Mr. Garrison sucks. I've had to teach myself so much shit. And then try to teach it to Stan."

Karen pursed her lips and looked down at her lap. "Stan was nice."

"Yeah, he was. And smart, just like you." Kyle erased the four dots she had and glanced up to see that Karen was still looking down, blinking hard. "So, if it's sulfur, it has 16 protons and 16 electrons. The first shell will have two electrons, then eight, then six…" He drew three circles before noticing sniffling coming from Karen. "Are you okay, Karen?"

"Yes," she whispered, wiping her eyes.

Kyle got up, walked over to the customer prep table, and returned with a napkin. Moving his hand toward Karen's face, she gasped, flinching with her shoulders tense.

"Sorry, it's just a napkin."

"Oh, thanks." She took it and dabbed under her eyes.

Kyle sat down across from her, hands on his knees. The remaining ice in his cup was melting. "Did you think I was going to hit you?"

"No… Just a reflex, I guess."

"I have the same one, unfortunately…"

Karen said nothing, continuing to wipe her eyes and nose.

"It's okay if you're frustrated, Karen-"

"-I have to go to the bathroom," she sprang and ran around the corner, flip-flops squishing on the wood-paneled floor.

Tweek peeked out from behind the espresso machine. "Is she okay?"

Kyle shrugged and shook his head. He approached the counter. "Can I get a bagel for her or something? She seems a little shaky. I don't think she's had lunch yet."

Craig emerged from the back, pulling an apron over his head. "We have quiches now, you know."

"Yeah, would she eat a quiche?"

"I guess."

"Cool," Craig pulled one out of the fridge. "Nice septum ring, by the way. It makes me want to wave a red flag in front of your face."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Craigory."

Kyle meandered around, watching the other patrons drink and chat, or read the newspaper. All the people he had known at one point or another. He stood in front of the community board and read over several flyers: "Chester's Lawn Service," "Estate Sale on Verner Street," "Making Time for God." Kyle rolled his eyes at that one. The appeal of atheism was trickling, drop by drop into his brain, though Kenny's situation warbled any logic he was used to. "Golden Broncos Summer Survival Camp" then "Now Casting: Titus Andronicus:"

The Park County Theatre Company is now casting for William Shakespeare's famous (and infamous) first tragedy. Please come prepared to read several roles. We will hold auditions at the South Park Community Center Friday, June 23rd and Saturday, June 24th from 5 pm to 7 pm. Actors of all ages, race, and gender are welcome.

"Fuck, that's tomorrow." Kyle muttered.

"What's tomorrow?" Karen's tiny voice behind him.

"Oh, um, auditions for this play." He put a finger on the flyer. "It's Shakespeare. It's not my favorite play by him. I think Othello has a more solid structure… but this would be cool to be a part of."

"You like Shakespeare?" Karen asked, her voice incredulous.

"Whore for science, slut for Shakespeare."

Karen grinned, though her eyes were still watery and pink.

"Are you feeling okay? Are you sick?" Kyle put the back of his hand on her forehead. "You don't feel warm."

"I'm fine. I'm just not… good at science."

"That's not true. You just have a shitty teacher that plays Love Boat reruns instead of actually teaching." He guided her back to their table, where Craig had already set down two quiche slices on olive plates. "We'll figure this out."

She sat down, chewing on her lip. "This is for me?"

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

Karen picked up a fork and drove it into the spinach and bacon concoction, "Virginia Woolf."

"Damn right."

"I'm sorry I cried in front of you."

"Don't be. Sometimes we have to fight to understand things. It's hard. I've cried in front of people that I didn't want to." He pulled out his phone to see a message from Kenny. "Oh, it's your brother."

"Tell him I said 'holla'."

 **12:40 pm- Kenny: So how many dumb science puns are you feeding to my sister**

 **12:42 pm- Kyle: I'm saving them all for you, actually :P**

 **12:43 pm- Kenny: Ughhhhhh… why are you such a goob**

 **12:44 pm- Kyle: I'm a WAT?**

 **12:45 pm- Kenny: GOOB. WEINER. DORK.**

 **12: 47 pm- Kyle: Your sister's a genius btw. She's over here quoting Helen Keller and shit… it's almost scary**

 **12: 48 pm- Kenny: I know she is. I think she got nerfed by being put in this family**

 **12:49 pm- Kyle: :/**

 **Kyle: Also she said to tell you holla?**

 **12:50 pm- Kenny: Tell her I ain't no hollaback girl**

 **12:51 pm- Kyle: ...really? Am I really the goob here?**

"He's said he's not a hollaback girl… what kind of inside joke is that?"

"We just both really, really like that song."

Kyle laughed, "Yeah, apparently. How's the quiche?"

"It's really good… thank you."

"Okay, I'm glad. I know I can't think straight when I'm hungry. Not that I ever think straight to begin with."

"Ha, neither does Kenny." Karen said without thinking. She gasped, and dropped her fork.

"Wait, what?"

" **Forever"/ Trevor Something**

 **I always feel high when we listen to Trevor Something because all of his songs sound so dreamy, like they're from another planet. When I'm with you, it feels like I'm in a miraculous dream, but the best part of that is that it's not a dream, it's our reality. And I'm so happy that it is.**

 _ **Just inhale the smoke and let yourself go**_

 _ **To a realm that's unknown you won't be alone**_

 _ **Were leaving this place to infinite space**_

 _ **Our kind is embraced thank god and give grace**_

 _ **Take my hand and we could do this together**_

 _ **Don't be afraid this will make everything better**_

 _ **I want this feeling forever**_

 _ **I want this feeling forever and ever**_

"Butters, can you hand me the light?" Kenny crossed the front of the shop and dove under a car.

"Here," Butters slid the light under.

"God, everything is rusted to shit here."

"That's what she said."

Kenny laughed, scratching some flakes off with a fingernail, "Yeah, that's one rusty taint for sure."

"Can you see what's wrong?"

"Not yet. I'm not surprised… As soon as I saw this bitch get towed in, I knew we were fucked."

"Why even bother?" grumbled Butters.

"Buying cars is a hassle… but still, seriously, fuck this Plymouth dude. Fuck!"

"What?"

"I think I cut myself."

"Oh no."

"Wait, no. It's only a scratch. I'm fine." Kenny scooted out. "We need masks. Something is starting to stink."

"The masks don't smell great either," Butters commented.

"I'd rather smell the styrofoam than whatever roadkill is stuck in here."

"You think that's what the problem is?"

"Doubt it. But just in case, I could go without having squirrel guts raining on my face."

"That's fair," Butters popped open the hood and inspected the engine as Kenny climbed back under, fully masked, "So, I guess you and Bebe are done, huh?"

"We never began, Butters. It was just a casual thing."

"She seemed to really like you, though."

"Really liked my dick would be more accurate. And she wasn't the only one I was with anyway. But it doesn't matter. Her and Wendy are halfway across the ocean by now."

"Good to know that you're a walking STD," Butters giggled, then stopped at the realization. "Wait, did you touch Heidi when we were broken up?"

"No," Kenny lied. He made a mental note to tell Butters the truth when he wasn't trapped underneath an elevated car.

"I didn't think so," Butters leaned in to see the coolant levels. "So, uh, how's Kyle been?"

"Good, I guess. He quit smoking, got a nose piercing, I'm pretty sure he's going to shave his head next. You know, the usual stuff." He dug his hands into pipes.

"I hope he stops smoking for good."

"I think he will this time. He had extra help." _Damn… Should have worn gloves. I'm so unprofessional._ He liked the feeling though. When the problem touched his skin, Kenny knew how to fix it. What protection did he really need anyway? Thinking back to the blood he hacked into the bathroom sink (dying for real this time i might be going soon goodbye you guys) and the blood that came from Kyle's fingers in the dream, to see his neck twist over and over again, to see him dead in the field. Kenny's own blood buzzed like a hornet's nest, dread burrowing further into his belly.

Butters slammed down the hood, stealing Kenny's breath away. He convulsed, wheezed.

"Kenny? Are you okay?"

"I'm f-fine," Kenny crawled out, his chest tightening. Butters pulled the mask

"Whoa, you're really fucking pale."

"Pale?"

"Your lips are purple- Kenny?"

Swelling of static filled Kenny like a balloon. Butters's face disappeared, everything switched to black.

For 45 seconds, he dreamt he was floating downstream, all of his friends and family squatting on the banks, watching with their knees hugged to their chests and their eyes somber.

He woke up to Butters pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, "Oh thank God. I called an ambulance."

"No, no, cancel it." Kenny tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Pain surged up and down his arm, forcing him back down.

"Just stay. God, you're sweating bullets."

"What's happening to m-me?"

"Kenny, I think you're having a heart attack. I called Kyle, too."

Ambulance sirens called in the distance. "Fuck, no. Don't. He's with my sister right now."

"I already called him. I'm sorry…"

" **From Here to Mars"/ Coheed and Cambria**

 _ **Honey, it's in the stars**_

 _ **And you're my everything from here to Mars**_

 _ **And every word I say I truly mean**_

 _ **Dear darling, I hope I'm being clear**_

 _ **'Cause there's no one like you on earth**_

 _ **That can be my universe**_

 **Kyle. Babe.**

 **I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will always love you, and I'll always want you to be happy. Never be afraid to be yourself. Never feel stupid for standing in the rain and watching how droplets form puddles.**

 **I can't wait to see the amazing things that you'll do.**

 **Happy birthday.**

 **I love you so much.**

25


	18. Being a Man Isn't Everything

**June 10, 2015**

The squealing of rusty swings was too much. Smells of chlorine and sunscreen, clouds slowly shifting, blanketing all of it, made him queasy. Stan left the picnic table with his bike, wheels _tick-tick-ticking_ through the wet grass. People stared at him. Family clusters surrounding barbeques, blowing bubbles and playing 80s rock on their Bluetooth speakers. His shorts were too short, he knew. And his baggy, sleeveless tee-shirt with slits down the sides showed more than they probably cared to see. Maybe they thought his sunglasses were queer- he lost his own and borrowed Sharon's. Maybe they thought it was weird to see a 16-year-old with a gold Walkman. _What a way to detach yourself from reality_ , they might think, they might whisper to their sisters, their cousins.

For Stan, he felt it brought him closer to realness. His phone was at home, stashed in a desk drawer with old notes that Kyle would pass to him during class. They would say things like _Are you following this shit?_ Or _you're really cute and it's unfair that we have to behave in public_ and _Stop being homophobic and pay attention to me damn it._ He watched the way puddles swallowed his shoes as he walked, studied the sizes and shapes of bug-bitten leaves, children eating frozen yogurt on the sidewalk.

(im a part of all of this)

He smiled to himself. _That is such a hippie thing to think._

Even as his tires slipped in a puddle and he fell sideways, nearly splitting his hip, he still felt a part of things. Propping himself up and looking down at his bloody knee and muddied thighs.

(this is real. im real. yes. i dont feel real but i must be)

He couldn't call anyone and he didn't need to.

He was fine. He felt fine.

When Kyle opened his front door to the dirt and blood baptized Stan, his eyes widened with concern, then his eyelids lowered when he saw Stan's face, grinning, arms open like a Cabbage Patch doll.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, grinning a little himself.

"What hasn't?" Stan wrapped his bare arms Kyle's neck and kissed him, covering both of them in mud.

...

"Hi, my name is Kyle Marsh."

He would cut the daisy from his throat if he could.

He stood in a bare, well-lit room with black paneling and a whiteboard. "I don't have a major role in mind. I'd actually prefer to be a background person if you don't mind. I brought a sonnet-" he reached into his pocket.

"Actually, we'd like you to read from this," the director, Brandi, pushed a packet across the table with highlighted dialogue.

"Oh, yeah. Of course. That makes way more sense." He took it with clammy hands.

"You seem a little fidgety. It's okay if you're nervous," the assistant director, Sabina, spoke with a thick Russian accent, "It's just Shakespeare. It's not like he'll hear you if you mess up."

"But you guys will," Kyle smiled. "I'm a little nervous, yeah. Actually, I was wondering, do I need to stay for the whole three hours? It's not that I don't want to be here, it's just that… my friend is in the hospital. But I know he'd kick my ass if I didn't try this out."

"I'm sorry, what happened?" Brandi leaned in closer with his pencil across his lips. Spare no details around theatre people.

"He had a stress-induced heart attack. He's going to be okay though."

"Oh my God," said Sabina, "How old is he?"

"My age. 18."

Brandi shook his head, "You kids really have your back up against the wall these days."

Kyle wasn't sure how true it was, but it was coming from a man in his 60s, with a lifetime of studying the human condition, there had to be some truth.

"I just want to make sure he comes back to a safe place," something delicate bloomed in Kyle's chest, "You know… clean clothes, and food. We've been through a lot together our whole lives, and especially these past few months with my boyfriend, who is his best friend too, passing away. I think it would be nice for him to come back to something… nice. I don't know."

(what am i doing)

(why am i telling this to complete strangers)

"Kyle, why don't you read this part?" Sabina flipped a few pages in and pointed to a block of monologue.

...

Only flashes of fluorescent lighting, his mother standing over him, crying (something he's seen over and over again), a doctor talking to him at one point to which he mumbled something like "tell my sister I love her," and he said, "you can tell her yourself" were what Kenny could remember.

They told him to sleep. _Keep sleeping, you're running on fumes, get some rest._ He slept on and off for 24 hours, the monotonous beeping of machines cradling him to sleep at times, other times they were annoying, keeping him awake. A nurse gave him an old iPod Nano and headphones to help.

5 am, Kenny woke the morning of his final day there. Karen was curled up next to him, asleep, arm across his torso, holding Kyle's hand, who was slumped over on Kenny's bedside, also asleep, his other hand on Kenny's arm. He blinked hard trying to refocus, see the shapes in the dim light of the room.

"Hey," he nudged Kyle.

"Hnn," Kyle stirred but didn't sit up.

"Kyle, wake up," he nudged a little harder.

"Wha?" He rose, squinting. He yawned, ran his palm over his face. "Hey… how long have you been awake?" he whispered.

"Just now. Have you guys been here all night?"

"Pretty much."

"They let you stay?"

"Of course. Well, kind of. Karen cried a lot."

"Oh, man." He looked down at his sister, still sniffling in her sleep. He hated that he had been unconscious for all of it, unable to console her calm Kyle, "Take her home, please. She doesn't need to be here."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"But you just woke up."

"I know," Kenny whispered aggressively. "But she needs to go home."

Kyle hesitated. In the warm glow of the bedside light, his eyes looked gray. "I don't want to take her back to that house."

"I don't want her to go back either, but this setting isn't much better," he sighed. "And it's our home. It's all we have."

Kyle shifted and leaned forward, "Maybe it doesn't have to be anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"We could move in together."

"What? And live with your psycho dad?"

"No. I mean, we're 18 now. It could be our own place, and we can have Karen stay with us. Ike too. Make our own home."

Part of Kenny wondered if Kyle somehow overheard his thoughts during his conversation with Bebe. This was impossible. Coming out of nowhere. "How? First of all, they told me I can't work for four weeks. That's going to put a dent in things. Second, you don't even have a job."

"I'll get a job. I'll get two jobs. Hell, I'll get three if I have to. I don't care if it's some shitty two-bedroom apartment. It'll still be better than where we're at now."

"Three jobs? Yeah, that'll work when you start college."

Kyle picked at his lips and said nothing.

"Kyle. I'm not letting you _not go to school._ You're too good. Too smart, to stay in this rank-ass town."

"But… _you're_ here."

"Kyle, I don't think you know what you're saying. So, please. Take my sister home. Then take yourself home and sleep."

"Fine… but I'm coming back at two to pick you up," he rose, slid the chair back, "At least think about it, Ken."

"I will." Gently, he moved his shoulder, waking Karen. "Hey, Kyle's going to take you home, okay?"

"Okay," she mumbled, climbing out of the bed, turned and hugged her brother, "Bye, Kenny. I love you."

"I love you, too."

She squeezed hard. "Bye," she said again before heading for the hallway.

Kyle lingered for a moment, staring at Kenny with a small smile.

"What?" Kenny asked.

"Nothing. I'm just glad you're okay."

"You know I would have been regardless."

"I know. But still, I don't want you to suffer…"

"Well, thanks."

Kyle looked out into the dark hallway to make sure Karen wasn't in sight. Kenny watched him, his face scrunched in confusion. Kyle leaned down and quickly hugged him, making the heart monitor jump for a moment.

...

The dream came again. Faster. It was faster every time. He was crawling in the dark, wet soil squeezing under his fingernails, sweat dripping into his eyes. Walls tighter and tighter around his body until finally he was pushed up and floating above the ground, fingers dragging over the cemetery gravel. Burning. Stan looks up at him smiling, standing in his grave, casket open. Another Stan is in the casket, arms at his sides, dead asleep.

 _Why are you so upset Kyle?_ He wraps his decomposing hands around Kyle's forearm and lowers him into the grave so that they're standing face to face. Stan points at his gravestone where "Kyle Marsh (1999-2017)" has been engraved in cryptic, angular letters.

 _I added you today. This way we can rot into each other._

Kyle shakes his head (i cant stay with you stan i would give anything to have you back but i cant stay)

 _Why? Why not?_

(because you are not real)

Kyle wakes up at his desk, his cheek hot from being buried in the crook of his elbow. Stan's notebooks are in a pile on his left, his laptop is open to 25 tabs of poetry sites, each one asking for a cover letter, 12-pt Times New Roman font, separate pages, ( _no fancy script!)_ , no name on the entries. He wonders how the hell he's going to go through all these pages. Who will take what, what will they think when they find out the author is dead.

He glances at the time on the monitor: 1:26 pm. He would have to pick up Kenny soon. He disobeyed him when he was told to bring Karen home. Instead, he took her to McDonald's, then took her back to his house, where Sheila made her eat even more. In their driveway, Ike was now teaching her how to skateboard. He could hear them laughing through his open window. They were listening to the radio, too.

(i wish stan was here)

In the shower, he roughly scrubbed his face and scalp, the water so piping hot that it turned his skin red. Finally, enough to keep him warm. Reptile.

He went over again in his head what was written so far to these publishers:

 **Dear Editor:**

 **My name is Kyle Marsh-**

His fingers tingle when he types this part. It was only a half-lie. It would be his name soon. Hopefully.

 **I am the partner of Stan Marsh. I am sending four pieces to you ("Under Fluorescent Lights" "The Family Concert Minus One" "Birds" and "Cannibal Girls").**

 **Stan has been writing for several years, was an honor student, and once fought our English teacher about Sylvia Plath. He loved Phantogram and Butcher Babies and Meg Myers. Sometimes he wore lipstick. He was good at nearly everything he did, and we loved him. I loved him.**

 **Unfortunately, Stan lost his battle with chronic depression this past spring. I know that he would want me to do this for him.**

 **If the material does not fit the genre of your journal, please don't hesitate to send it back. I will not be offended. I am not familiar with this process and will gladly accept any advice that I receive.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **Kyle Marsh**

 **...**

You should be dead. That's what they told him: _you should be dead. We've never seen anything like this before._ They clipped his x-rays and MRIs to the board, the descriptions growing more gruesome with every finger point. All of this internal damage, from his corroded brain, a strangulated neck, ( _this looks like disembowelment to me)_ to broken toes. His heart was the worst, they said. His heart had the worst damage.

Kenny took this in with a small smile, nodding politely. He couldn't say "I figured this would happen eventually." They'd think he was crazy.

They would follow up with him later about potential surgery. He waved it off, "Insurance won't cover that shit." But he was alive, still kicking, far from pushing up daisies, and they sent him home with a list of prescriptions, a pat on the back from one of the doctors, and a "hang in there, buddy."

 _Hang in there, buddy,_ hearing it over and over again, in the back of his brain while Kyle drove a little too slow past cows and horses.

 _Hang in there, buddy,_ as they walked up the driveway to his house, and Kenny noticed that Kyle was wearing long sleeves despite the hot weather.

 _Hang in there, buddy,_ as Kyle took him straight to the bathroom, told him to shower, he's been in the hospital for three days.

After a cold shower, and then a hug from Karen, he went to his room where Kyle was lying on his mattress, reading. He looked up when Kenny entered. "I washed your sheets for you," he said. He wiggled to the side, "You should probably sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping," Kenny said, but lay next to him anyway. "I should go back to work soon."

"Just take a break, dude. You work yourself hard enough." He palmed Kenny's chest, afraid that he would get up and run out.

Kenny placed his hand around Kyle's, "I just don't want to be useless."

"You're not useless. Just try to relax, please. If not for yourself, then for me."

(youre sitting on my bed how can i relax KYLE)

"And if not for me, then for Karen."

Kenny let out a heavy sigh, gave Kyle's hand a squeeze, "Are you going to stay here? I mean, obviously you don't have to if you don't want to."

"I'll stay as long as you want me to."

"Okay, so forever then."

"Ha, I think you're still a little drugged up."

Kenny pushed Kyle's hand down and sat up, "They didn't give me anything that would make me high."

"Oh. Oh-kay. You definitely need a nap, then."

"No, Kyle. I almost died again."

"I know, and I hate it. I know you always come back but," Kyle sat up too and crossed his legs. He leaned up against the wall, tilted his chin up as if he might kiss the sky. Badly, so badly, Kenny wanted to ask why he was wearing long sleeves but he was afraid of the answer. "I still hate the idea of you having to go through this over and over again…"

He couldn't help it. His sweet side was showing. "Kyle, I love you."

"I love you, too."

"No…"

"No?"

"I mean…" (what if this was my last alive what if what if this curse or power is weakening and i am dying i would have died without him knowing) "I'm in love with you."

"...are you sure you're not high?"

"Ky…" He took Kyle's hand and flipped it to an open palm, traced his fingers over the lines of Heart and Head. The space of skin between the two was wide.

"You're fucking with me."

Kenny looked directly into Kyle's eyes with his own solemn ones. He shook his head. Reaching his arm around Kyle's back, he pulled him closer to his own face. Kyle did not squirm or shrink away, so he went for it, kissing him lightly. It didn't match his fantasy about what it would be like to kiss Kyle for the first time, but he wasn't disappointed. Especially since Kyle kissed back. It felt good to be touched like this again, but parts of him, with his belly pulling upward and the static in the back of his head fizzling, found guilt. It felt like Stan was watching him. He pulled away.

"Why didn't you say something?" Kyle asked softly.

"Dude, I've been dropping hints since elementary school, but apparently, you're not very good at picking them up… and besides, you started dating Stan and I…" his nostrils burned and his eyes watered, "How am I supposed to tell you something like that when you're with someone that makes you happy? If Stan had been an asshole, or was cheating on you or something, then yeah. I would have been more than happy to sabotage your relationship. But Stan loved you. He really, really loved you. I figured it would be better if I just stayed away."

Kyle thought back to the night where Kenny told him and Stan that he was quitting school. He seemed relieved. Finally, he could work for himself and not have to worry about being clustered in with everyone else from 7:30 am to 2:30 pm. The first week of Kenny not being at the bus stop felt unnatural. Then the second week came. Then the third. The fourth… they got used to it, the emptiness. "I wish you didn't. We really missed you."

"I'm sorry. It was just too painful," he let his hand fall down Kyle's back, "I did miss you though. I missed you a lot."

He wanted to kiss him again, but held it back. "I understand. I know what it's like to have to fight your heart."

"Is that a heart attack joke?"

Kyle's eyes widened as if he were a sensitive housewife, hand over his heart, mouth open, trapped in a black and white screen ( _Oh good heavens, no dear! I wouldn't dream of joking about such a subject)_.

Kenny laughed, "Dude. I'm joking."

"Sorry," Kyle bit his lip and looked down. Something changed in his face. A look that Kenny was familiar with.

"What are you thinking?"

"I think that… I kind of knew."

"How?! You seemed so oblivious."

"Gee, thanks. After I found that picture of you and me with Stan folded back," he glanced at the closet door as if he were watching the scene again from outside of snowglobe. "I suspected you. I just would rather you tell me when you were ready. Also… your sister kind of accidentally said something. I only half-believed her."

"Wow…"

"Can I ask you a question?"

Kenny swallowed, "Sure. Anything."

"Why me? Girls really like you. I didn't know you liked guys, but I'm sure if they knew, you'd have some… interested parties. I don't understand why you would want me."

On any other day, or if he was only asking it to himself, he would be able to answer without fear. At least the hard part was over with. He said what he thought with trembling hands: "I just… love how smart you are. I love your sense of humor. It's weird. You're dark but then you come out of nowhere with these dumbass puns. You're sweet. You always put others before yourself. You're brave. Sometimes you can be impulsive and destructive. Sometimes you're mean… but you always own up to it when you're in the wrong. And you're cute. You have no idea… the things I would do to you if I could."

"If you could?"

"If you let me. Like how you let me kiss you just now."

Kyle bit his lip again, turning red.

"And you're warm," Kenny added. "You make me feel warm."

"That's funny. I'm cold all the time."

Kenny dragged his hands down Kyle's inner thighs, "I wish no one was in the house right now because you feel pretty warm to me." He smiled, seeing that Kyle looked flustered. He scratched his arm. "Speaking of which… aren't you melting in that shirt?"

Kyle stiffened. "I'm fine."

"Don't. You're not fine," he pulled the sleeve back to see lesions, circular cigarette burns all over and under his arms. "Oh, Kyle…"

Kyle looked off to the side, not wanting to see Kenny's dismantled expression or his own sabotaged skin.

Kenny took aloe vera from the fridge and rubbed it all over Kyle's arms, much like Kyle used to do for Stan. He wondered, if this was all life was- the same things repeating over and over with different people.

"So, can I ask _you_ something?" Kenny asked, capping the bottle.

"Shoot."

"Why'd you let me do it? You had several seconds to backup or run away or push me. But you let me put my arm around you, like this," he moved his arm to the small of Kyle's back again, "And then you let me kiss you, like this." Kenny leaned in toward Kyle's face. Kyle put both hands up on Kenny's head, stopping him and giving them both a waft of aloe vera scent.

"I can't," said Kyle. "I like you. I really do, and I think that we do have _something._ But I'm still… I'm still hurting. I need more time."

Kenny took both of Kyle's hands with a sigh, held them tightly in his own. "I understand. We have time. We have all the time in the world."

(lying again)

 **Transcript from Kyle's voicemail:**

 **June 27th, 2017**

 **Hi Kyle, this is Brandi from the Park Country Theatre Company. We really loved the discussion we had and the reading you did for us. I know that you said you only wanted small character parts, but we were hoping that you might opt for taking the role of Saturninus. We think you have the perfect energy for him. If you're not comfortable with that, it's totally fine, either way, we'd love to have you. Give us a call back, thanks! Bye.**


	19. Into Happiness

**"Into Happiness" by Phantogram:** watch?v=YLkptNStRzc

Often he felt there were two of him. His body is the first thing, carrying with him a child brain that would stare impolitely at things and asked too many questions. This child brain guilted him, told him he was wrong, told him to apologize, start over. Get better. Be better.

Cartman beat that child down every time he opened his little (now bruised) mouth and told him things Cartman didn't want to hear. "You're a kid, what do you know?" He called this child dumb, useless. _There are secret, layers to everything that you don't see. You can't call out black and white because you don't recognize the gray yet._

They argued inside his skull while he folded towels. He had his own table in the corner. The other inmates that were brave enough to say 'hello' to him, now looked at his sallow, chalky skin and only muttered in his direction with their heads down. There was a rumor that Cartman contracted some sort of terminal illness. How they didn't know, so they made it up. Maybe the kitchen workers poisoned him, maybe he shared a needle with someone, another inmate, a guard, possibly? The prison doctors didn't know what was wrong, and they weren't keen on finding out. This was fine with him. Let them speculate or not speculate as much as they want. It would all be over soon.

He crept behind the dryer to add the latest to his stash. Harmless at first, but deadly with time- he had been stuffing extra lint behind the dryer. It was taking a while. He only took small amounts from each load to avoid suspicion. It was an industrial dryer, and he knew that with patience, the pay off would be worth it. Soon. Very soon, the place would be ablaze.

Maybe he would let his child brain enjoy the pretty flames. Maybe, as he's running away, leaving everyone else to burn, he'll turn his head and see the orange and red in the distance, and smile.

...

 **June 28, 2017**

 **10:40 am- Kyle: I got a lead part lmao**

 **10:41 am- Kenny: Congrats! I'm not surprised tho. You're dramatic af**

 **10:43 am- Kyle: How dare you**

 **You right tho**

 **10:45 am- Kenny: What part?**

 **10:47 am- Kyle: Saturninus Andronicus**

 **10:49 am- Kenny: w h a t**

 **10:54 am- Kyle: He's the king. Weak, sad. Easily manipulated. They said I have the 'energy' for him. I'm concerned about what that means lol**

 **11:00 am- Kenny: Just because you have the energy, doesn't mean you ARE weak and sad. Maybe there was just something about your voice or body language that they thought fit the character.**

 **11:02 am- Kyle: Yeah, makes sense. Don't get attached to my character btw. I die at the end**

 **11:05 am- Kenny: Doesn't everyone die in Shakespeare?**

 **11:07 am- Kyle: Not always**

 **...**

 **July 13, 2017**

He wasn't a criminal. But standing on the marble steps of the Park County Court House with a suit on, two cups of coffee and half a bagel in his stomach, he felt like one. Sheila, Gerald, Ike, Randy, Sharon, and Kenny surrounded him, murmuring amongst themselves, talking about everything except the situation at hand: the weather, the Colorado Rockies versus the Detroit Tigers, the new candidate for the Mayor of South Park ( _his head looks like a shrunken apple!_ ), the sale of strawberries at Whole Foods.. Ike was fussing with his tie still. Kyle leaned down and unraveled it, "Here. Pull through the side and over, around, and back under again. Then over and through."

Kenny watched Kyle's eyes, how calm and focused they were. Absentmindedly, he traced his bottom lip with his finger. For a moment, Kyle glanced up and caught him staring, and smiled.

Kyle stepped back after he was done. "Looks pretty dapper."

"Looks nice, Ike," added Kenny.

"Thanks," they continued walking up the steps, "Maybe there'll be some girl here whose parents are divorcing and I can get an easy girlfriend."

"Ike!" Sheila screeched, "That's not a nice way to get a girlfriend."

Kyle laughed. He opened the large glass door for the others, "Don't worry, Ma. I think he likes Karen anyway."

"No, I don't!"

"You gave her your skateboard, dude."

"So?"

Randy chimed in: "So? What else are we supposed to think?"

 _He must miss being a teasing dad,_ Kenny thought with a frown.

Ike rolled his eyes, scowling, followed the others into the building, "It was your skateboard anyway."

"That's fine. I wasn't using it."

"Yeah, 'cause you stopped riding skateboards and started riding dick-"

"IKE."

On the way in, they were searched by security. Kyle left his audition sonnet in his pocket by accident, and it was now crisp from the dryer. Randy turned up a bottle of hot sauce he forgot about, and they confiscated a pocket knife from Kenny. Sheila rifled through her purse for her ID at some point, thinking she would need it. Instead, she pulled out three CVS receipts, a Blockbuster card, Mary Kay lipstick, and finally her license that she didn't need. On the way in to the waiting room, Kyle whispered to Kenny, "You look nice too."

"Thanks. My tie is a clip-on though."

"Clip-on's are underrated. Still looks good."

"If you keep flirting with me, I might explode."

"I'm not flirting with you," Kyle reached over and tugged on the tie, "I just want this tie."

"You mean you want the tie _off._ That's going to lead to other things coming off-"

Gerald slipped by them, adjusting his cuffs. Looking at them for a second, he said, "I guess no one wastes time anymore."

Kyle flushed pale, immediately letting go of Kenny's tie. Kenny glared after Gerald, who was joining the others at the end of the hallway. He gently touched Kyle's elbow. "Hey, it's okay. Don't listen to him." He tucked a red curl behind Kyle's ear.

Kyle took a deep breath, "I just wish he wasn't here today. This situation is already fucked up as it is."

"I know, I know," he gave Kyle's shoulder a squeeze. "But this will all be over with before you know it."

Kyle nodded. He grabbed the hand that was on his shoulder and lightly squeezed back. "Are you okay with this?"

"Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy."

Quickly, Kyle pulled on Kenny's hand and kissed his fingers before they continued down the copper and beige hall.

When they were herded into a waiting room, Kyle realized he didn't know what to tell the judge. How he could put into a short statement something that takes over 70,000 words to explain?

He had nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

"Are you okay, bubbeh?" Sheila asked softly, "You're grinding your teeth."

With a palpitating heart, he answered. "I don't know what I'm going to say. What if they don't take me seriously?"

"Just speak from here," she held her hand over her heart, "God will help you find the words."

Sharon walked around slowly, hands folded in front of her waist, staring at the different gold-framed paintings.

"I need to go to the bathroom," Kyle suddenly stood.

Kenny looked up at the back of his head, "Do you need me to come with you?"

"No, it's fine. I'll be right back."

Kyle walked away, leaving an empty chair for Ike to sit down next to Kenny. Before Kenny could utter a greeting, Ike spoke: "I just want you to know that I think it's okay."

Kenny almost asked, "what's okay?" But he knew better. It was easy to tell.

"I'm glad that you think so," he murmured.

"Even if I didn't, it doesn't matter. You really love my brother. That's all that matters. You're good for each other. Anyone with eyeballs can see that. I mean, except for my dad. But he sucks so his opinion isn't valid."

"Well… thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. When you're right, you're right," he slouched forward, elbows in his lap. "There are other things to be upset about. A couple of guys being dudes isn't one of them."

Kenny wondered how much the adults could hear them,

(oh wait im an adult too i guess but not really)

Sheila and the rest all tucked away in the corner now. It was a small room, and Ike didn't seem to notice the ups and downs of volume in his voice.

"What's there to be upset about?" he leaned forward too.

"There's something off about this town lately."

"Just lately? You were probably too young to remember, but your brother and I have been through-"

"-I remember some. I also know that you guys have seen… them."

"Them?"

"That crazy cult that met in Mackleroy's basement."

"Yeah. But Ike, you don't have to worry. It's been ages. They're not around anymore."

"I've been doing some research, and that wasn't the only cult incident here."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I figured," Ike looked around the room. A few strangers watched them. He lowered his voice, "The first settlers of South Park _were_ a cult. They came here to be in isolation."

"Satanic?"

"The opposite. It was like, Christian, but not what I would expect Christianity to be."

"People get radical sometimes."

"Well, the leader, Edward something, I don't remember, was seriously fucked up. If you even so much as yawned in front of him, or looked at him in a weird way, he'd have you buried alive. There's this whole fucking tunnel system underground just filled with corpses… I guess it would be just bones at this point. Like the catacombs in France. The remaining members got fed up and used the tunnels to go undetected, dig up into his tent, and kill him in his sleep."

"I thought the tunnels were for smuggling alcohol."

"Dude, we've been _lied_ to," his whisper was piercing. Kenny nervously glanced over at Sharon, who looked at them from across the room, hands still folded in front of her waist. "I… here, look at the notes on my phone."

He flipped over his phone. A message from Karen glowed on the screen that read "Hey :)." Ike quickly swiped it away.

"You're texting my sister?"

"You're dating my brother."

Kenny's cheeks burned, his tight lips peeled back showing an overbite that he hated anyone seeing. This time, he didn't care.

"Never thought you'd hear me say that, eh?" Ike asked.

"No. Never."

Ike opened up his notes:

 **These people FUCKED up…**

 **Leader, Connor dies 1892**

 **Remaining members get violently sick and die, mainly intestinal. Journals are unclear as to what exactly the sickness was. Black bile. Throwing up a lot. Maybe an infection? Or curse.**

 **Everyone in settlement DIES**

"Wait, sickness?" Kenny asked, thinking back to Kyle's repeated bouts of vomiting. The dirt. Worms. Bile.

Ike nodded.

"Ike… what are you trying to connect here?" he pressed, though he had an idea of what he was about to explain.

"This place is cursed. And I don't mean like hashtag cursed. I mean actually cursed. I'm not superstitious, but something isn't right here dude. When I talk about Edward Connor, who does it remind you of?"

"A majority of cult leaders."

"Yeah, but… come on. What's the first face that popped into your head?"

...

Today was the day that he would try it.

Cartman pressed his fingers into the cinderblock and closed his eyes. Who did he hate the most here? He didn't know enough about anyone here to hate them. He could make up reasons.

It might be better if it were random. Not let emotions get in the way.

He thought harder and harder until screaming was heard down the hall. In his mind he could see vein ruptures, teeth falling, eyes bleeding, stomachs churning. _I did that. I'm doing this._ Remembering the day he shoved Kyle into the lockers, giving him a concussion, making his nose bleed. _I did that. I made Kyle bleed._

Panicked footfalls of other inmates brushed past him swarming to Officer Chakwas, who crawled across the floor, though the top of his head was puss, finger bones jutting through the skin.

...

 _Sometimes when I look at you, I see a piano in the front yard of a tilted house stuffed with blood-red carnations spilling on the sides and over keys in some small town._

 _Maybe ours._

Skinless, he was fucking skinless.

Kyle glared at himself in the mirror, thumbs on the lip of the sink, hunched over, much like how he had found Stan in the bathroom during the Bar Mitzvah reception.

(are you ok ?)

(am i ok?)

That morning before leaving to court, Kyle sat on the front porch and watched a crow pick wet leaves from the gutter, beaded eyes watching him with hesitance every time it pulled its head up and twitched its face around. After a few wormless bites, it flew away.

In the dark, while Stan softly snored, Kyle would trace the outlines of his face, the plushness of his lips, the slick hair of his eyebrows under his thumb. Holding his face was like holding the world.

If anyone should be searching for sustenance in a wet gutter and turn up with nothing but dirt in his beak, Kyle believed it was him. Hands gripped onto the porcelain, craning over the drain, his elongated reflection in the faucet, the memory of how Stan stood on his tip-toes and kissed him for the first time. Confusion and excitement, the menagerie of their clashing hormones.

He had read before that when two people fall in love, their heartbeats synchronize.

In the dark, his hand would fall down Stan's body and he would hear his own heart in Stan's chest.

He puts two fingers on his neck now and feels nothing.

The thing he feels churns in his stomach and he realizes it's happening again. His esophagus burns and his eyes water and sting as he throws up mud into the sink. Vision clouded with pink, one eye travels downward, the white part filling with blood like a fishbowl; he pulls on his hair and whispers "No, no, no, stop doing this to me…" until he rips some out. Scalp dancing with fire, he stares at the auburn curls in his hands.

 _Kyle, I'm confused. Why do I see this with you? I wish you would just say something so I don't have to._

 _This hurts._

 _..._

 **October 30, 2015**

"I am going to kill God," Stan had this to Kyle early in the morning while pulling himself into Kyle's Jeep.

"Um, what?" Kyle couldn't help but laugh. It was such a striking statement for 7am.

"I went to make some toaster strudel and my dad fucking ate all the fucking icing and left the god damn strudel," he pulled down the visor and ruffled his hair in the mirror. It had just been cut the day before and it looked too neat for Stan. His hair had been growing into mullet formation and didn't mix well with his new obsession of wearing jean jackets. Sharon and Randy nearly hog-tied him and threw him in a trunk to be hauled off to Great Clips.

"Yikes," Kyle was still chuckling. "I mean, toaster strudel is still pretty good without the icing."

"That's a fucked up thing to say, Kyle."

Kyle sat at this desk, cheek in palm, staring out the window waiting for class to start. Snowflakes stuck to the glass for crumbles of a moment and melted, leaving delicate small, cold ghosts. A little snow wouldn't stop trick or treaters the next day, he knew, they could be vicious. For the next night, he planned on staying home and helping his mother pass out Kit-Kats and Mike and Ike's on the front porch. He would see Stan next door doing the same thing. They often talked about how they would do Halloween at their own house one day. Questionable-looking scarecrow hanging from the front tree? Yes. Blood drip decal on the front door? Absolutely. A bowl of candy corn? Stan might pour them down the garbage disposal when Kyle isn't looking.

 _Speaking of Stan_ , he interrupted the conversation with himself, looking toward the hall. The warning bell rang. Other students giggled and gossiped. They looked up when Stan tumbled in, wheezing, his eyes red and puffy, his face thin.

He sat next to Kyle and squeezed his thigh.

"Are you okay? Did you _run_ here?"

"Yeah," Stan ducked down and whispered, "I was on the toilet and looking at memes but I lost track of time. Then I tried to get up and my legs were asleep, so I like, almost fell back into the bowl."

Kyle snorted, putting his hand over his mouth, "Are you fucking serious?" His voice was muffled by his palm.

"Yes!"

The class bell rang.

Mr. Dzuik, a tan and bald middle-aged man with arms so muscled he couldn't hold the phone up to his ear, rose from his computer in the corner and pulled down the projector screen in front of the whiteboard. Their English class was moving into contemporary literature, a genre that Stan lived in- especially poetry and science fiction. Kyle had seen the yellowed pages of _The Puppet Masters_ more than once clasped in his hands.

But today was extra important for Stan. Mr. Dzuik pulled up the first slide, featuring a photo of Syliva Plath and a quote from one of her poems, "Cut":

 _What a thrill-_

 _My thumb instead of an onion_

 _The top quite gone_

 _Except for a sort of hinge._

 _Of skin,_

 _A flap like a hat,_

 _Dead white._

 _Then that red plush._

Kyle wasn't sure what exactly set Stan off during the lecture, possibly around when Mr. Dzuik mentioned that she was "messed up," sometimes wore "too much make-up." When he said he "probably would have dated her," Stan whispered, "No one cares."

"What was that, Stanley Marsh?"

Kyle rubbed his palms on his jeans. He knew Stan was about to go off. He could feel him. But he wasn't about to stop him. Stan was right, and Stan should have been the one teaching if he could.

"I said: no one cares." Stan looked up at his teacher, "You haven't said an actual word about the things she wrote. She's, like, a pioneer of confessional poetry and all you've talked about is her face and her depression."

Mr. Dzuik cast a look at Kyle as if to say _can you calm him, please?_

Kyle avoided his eyes, giving his full, silent attention to Stan.

"This is _my_ class. If you have criticisms, we can talk about it after the bell."

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely, you're being disrespectful."

" _I'm_ being disrespectful? Look at you! You're the one being a fucking sexist," he was becoming more shrill with every word.

Clyde tapped Kyle on the shoulder and whispered, "Dude, put your dog on a leash. He's going to get us all in trouble."

"Fuck you," Kyle retorted, but he went to gently take Stan's hand, "Baby-"

Stan twisted away from him.

"Excuse you?" Kyle scoffed.

Stan gave him an apologetic face before driving back into his argument. "I just think you're honing in on the wrong things." Stan had suddenly switched his tone. He was calm, evenly breathing.

"You need to know her backstory before we start with the material."

"Why can't we let the poems speak for themselves?"

"That's not how the curriculum is laid out."

"Well maybe the curriculum needs to be changed."

Kyle bit his lip, reaching for Stan's hand again. This time he let Kyle take it.

"Nobody cares about her make-up," Stan continued, "People focus on her suicide too much. And it overshadows everything else." He was turning quieter, almost a whisper. Turning pale, he pressed on, "It's like anything she's ever done will always be tainted by the fact that she took her own life."

Kyle flattened his palm under Stan's. It felt wet. He prayed it was just sweat.

"Maybe you should sit in the office for awhile if talking about it bothers you," Mr. Dzuik countered.

"I can handle it."

"Stan…" Kyle touched up under his jacket sleeve. From the side, he saw Stan wince. He pulled his hand out, blood spread over the pads of his fingers, sinking into the lines of his skin.

...

 **Partial Transcript from Kyle Broflovski Case:**

 **July 13, 2017. 2:27 pm.**

 **Judge: Please state your full legal name for the record.**

 **Kyle: Kyle David Broflovski.**

 **Judge: Can you spell out your last name please?**

 **Kyle: B-R-O-F-L-O-V-S-K-I.**

 **Judge: Thank you. Your case description says that you've filed an appeal to change your last name. After hearing you spell it out, I don't blame you for wanting to change it.**

 **Kyle: Well, there's definitely a lot more to it than that, Your Honor.**

 **Judge: What is the last name you're changing to?**

 **Kyle: Marsh, Your Honor.**

 **Judge: Spell that out, please.**

 **Kyle: M-A-R-S-H.**

 **Judge: And you have a statement prepared?**

 **Kyle: I… It was my boyfriend's surname. He passed away this spring.**

 **Judge: So you were intending to get married?**

 **Kyle: No. Yes. It's complicated.**

 **Judge: Can you elaborate?**

 **Kyle: No one would believe me…**

 **Judge: Pardon?**

 **Kyle: Who will believe my verse in time to come, if it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb. Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say 'this poet lies, such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.' So should my papers, yellowed with their age, be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, and your true rights be termed a poet's rage, and stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, you should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.**

 **Your Honor.**

 **Judge: That was very moving, but I need a personal testimony. Not Shakespeare's.**

 **Kyle: I was just warming up, Your Honor.**

 **Stan was my best friend, my first lover, and the person who kept me together any time I was falling apart. One of the worst things about all of this, is that we still had so much life to live. I still fantasize about what our lives would have been like if we had moved away from South Park, went to school, got married and have our family. I'll always wonder, if he lived, how it would it be to watch him follow his dreams.**

 **All I have are the things he wrote to me, and memories. The things that he wrote are painful for me to read, and remind me of his death. And as I grow into an old man, the memories will fade.**

 **If I take his name, I'll at least die knowing he died with me, instead of before his time. Everytime I hear, or see my name in the future, I'll have this flicker of a moment where I remember him- if it's his eyes or his smile, or something he said- I'll remember that those parts of him are in me. I'll carry them with me, always. And I hope… I hope to God that this will help him forgive me.**

 **...**

There was still much work to be done. He would need a new social security card, debit card, driver's license. All little things, but clustered together, felt like a lot.

He felt happy. It was a small twinge, but he latched on and swallowed it like an apple seed.

Maybe he said too much, overshared even- but it got him what he needed.

Right now, all he wanted to do was sit on the back porch and read. He thought about going over his lines again even though he was already almost off-book. Every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday night and every Saturday morning they rehearsed. He didn't realize how fast the production time would be, and he came home tired and hungry. Sometimes, in his sleep, he would speak his lines, and friends or family that made cameos in those dreams were in Renaissance gowns.

Kenny was showing up a lot. Sometimes he was on stage as well, or underneath. Once in a while, he'd hang from the lights like a silent, observant bird, eyes focused on Kyle even when others were speaking.

Everything changed so fast, yet time was as languid as a slug.

He reached up and touched his hair. Not enough was ripped out for others to notice, except Kenny, of course, who notices everything. With a look, Kyle was able to tell him: _I'm sick again._

 _..._

 **STARE WITH ME INTO THE ABYSS**

Kyle almost begged Randy to have those lyrics etched into Stan's headstone. Sharon thought they were too dark, picturing Stan standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into a blackness that housed monsters with several eyes. But Kyle insisted that's what he would have wanted. All Phantogram lyrics were dark, that's why Stan loved them so much.

Gray marble with an oil slick reflect and his name, 1999-2017, "Beloved Son", and at the bottom: little music notes with "Stare With Me Into the Abyss." Some people had left flowers.

Kyle sat in front of it, knees up to his chin, holding his legs, wondering what it would be like to be of those people who set flowers on graves of people he didn't know. In Stan's case, it could have been anyone in South Park since everyone knew everyone else. Still, those flower-giving types of strangers existed in the world.

It rained the night before, and the bottoms of his cargo shorts sunk into the damp earth. He didn't care. The petrichor of the cemetery, the woods around it was too enticing to not be completely enveloped.

"Hey, Stan," he said finally, after several minutes of only staring and thinking. "I miss you. I think about you all the time."

Beyond the cemetery, behind the church, the echoes of the river rose up past the edge of the cliff. South Park was almost surrounded by a goliath moat at this point.

"You know when people haven't seen each other in a while and they'll say something like 'I miss your face?' Well, I really miss your face, Stan. I miss looking out my bedroom window and see your shadows. I miss how you always smelled like orange peels. I miss hearing you ramble about whatever it is you're obsessed with that week."

Church bells rang out, signaling the time- 12 pm. Other people were out and about: sitting in cafes having sandwiches with their mothers, fishing on the pier, window shopping at the mall, walking their dogs. He could stay right here forever.

"It's taken all these weeks of missing you- first the denial that you left. Then the denial that you were gone. The anger, the bargaining, the depression. I'm still working on acceptance. I feel like such a cookie-cutter person, a cardboard pop-up, never present. Now you're gone and I've realized how un-involved I was with our own lives.

Something is wrong with me, Stan. I've been so sick. Kenny can only do so much. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn't. He made himself go back to work and now I'm alone to deal with everything. I'm scared, Stan. I'm really scared."


	20. what do i do

**Kenny,**

 **I know what you have and I want it too.**

 **Don't act like you can't transfer it with your witchy shit, because you can.**

 **I know you can.**

 **So much of my time has been wasted here. I would have had a normal life. You fuckers ruined it for me.**

 **I'm going to get my life back. Even if that means taking yours.**

 **Eric**

13 times. 13 times he read the letter over. Kenny looked directly at each word, his vision burning into the ink for several minutes, trying to unearth some secret code, a loop, anything to hint that this wasn't really happening.

Cartman had always been manipulative, a mastermind of getting what he wanted, his words tangible, his promises a carnival teddy bear that you just can't win.

Bluntness was what scared Kenny about this note. The direct threat.

Reaching over chip crumbs and an old music box, he grabbed his buzzing phone. A selfie of Kyle and Karen at Tweek Bros. Studying, smiling. He saved it as his lock screen, then held the phone to his chest.

(what do i do)

(what the fuck do i do)

He sat down his bed and placed the phone down, screen up so he could see Kyle and Karen smiling at him before the picture faded. The music box found a way into his hands, still charming even in its shedding of paint chips. A gift from one of his grandmothers when she was shopping yard sales, he turned it over and wound it up, opened it to the little blue angel with golden wings and watched her drift in circles, slowly, slowly, hands clasped across her chest, to the tune of "Down to the River to Pray." Watching until she finally came to a stop, her hollow eyes gazing into his own.


	21. I Love You

Like a snowstorm in spring, he wasn't happy that it was happening, but he accepted it, breathing in frosted petals of a wanting he hadn't felt in years.

Of all things sweet and thin, like edible paper, slowly ossifying and quickly blooming- Kyle knew that he was in the middle ground- swimming between wrong and right. Between doing what his heart ached for; to be pulled out of this loneliness. To strip his skin and become new, closing his eyes and wishing that bad things didn't happen. In his own world, they wouldn't.

Aware of the stares he received, he continued walking down the street (he almost never drove anymore, he spaced out too far now, and walking everywhere was safer). On one of the telephone poles, Stan's Missing Person poster was ripped off, tatters of white remaining. His hand hovered over the wood where Stan's face had once been. Whoever did this wasn't completely in the wrong. Stan was gone, but it felt like he had been freshly killed again.

Now that he was officially Kyle Marsh, it helped. At least he could continue carrying the name.

He pressed his fingers into the grooves until his nails turned white.

He ripped open Kenny's truck door.

Kenny, with the seat back all the way, had been asleep, until his eyes flashed open at the sound of the door. Kyle's flushed face was hanging over him.

"Kyle-" he went to flip his chair up.

"-stay there," Kyle put his palm on Kenny's chest.

Still blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he held Kyle's hand as if he were handling a newborn kitten, "What's going on?"

"I don't know why I'm doing this," Kyle said, almost defensively. Kenny could feel he was shaking.

"Kyle, what the hell? Why are you shaking so bad?"

"Are _you_ feeling okay?"

"I guess so? Doesn't seem like you are. Why?"

"I'm about to give you another heart attack."

"Wait, what-"

Kyle climbed in, straddling Kenny's lap and slamming the door shut. Looking down at Kenny, he combed his fingers into his hair.

"Kyle, listen, you don't have to-"

"-I was thinking about you and I wanted to come be with you. Don't make it any more complicated."

Kenny said nothing, though his lips twitched like he wanted to. He took Kyle's hand from his chest and kissed it.

"I don't really know what to say… there's like, a million thoughts-"

"You don't have to say anything. I just… I kind of want you to kiss me again."

Kenny reached up and cradled Kyle's face, grazing his thumb on Kyle's cheek, something he'd never done to anyone else, but now came naturally. "I don't want you to regret anything."

"I won't."

Kenny's hand slid down to Kyle's collar. He bunched the fabric in his fingers and pulled Kyle into a kiss. Memories of school lunches, sitting so close together that their shoulders touched, weekend sleepovers of playing _Mario Kart_ , the far and few between quiet moments, kicking gravel around at the bus stop, lighting cow dung on fire for hours and hours, playing in the streets until the porch lights turned on- all the things that children do until their lives became nothing but agendas and calendars- he thought of all of it while they kissed for longer and longer until Kenny gently nudged him, feeling that Kyle was messing with his belt.

"We don't have to do that, Kyle."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Kenny chuckled, "Don't be sorry. You don't ever have to apologize for trying to get into my pants… I just think that you deserve better than truck fornication."

"F-fornication? Are you from fucking Texas or something?"

"You know I don't know how to word things!"

"You do when you're not nervous."

"Yeah, and right now, I'm extremely fucking nervous."

"Oh, I'm really sorry…"

"Please stop saying you're sorry. You really have nothing to be sorry for. I never expected you to return my feelings… I just needed you to know. I'm afraid that if we continue this, you're going to get messed up. I don't want to mess you up."

Kyle stared down at Kenny's solemn face and kissed him again, "I'm already messed up, Kenny."

"No, you're not. You've just been through a lot."

"So have you."

"Okay, we've both been through a lot. I guess we can be messed up together."

"I'd like that," Kyle relaxed, letting himself fall into Kenny's shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Kyle, hoping- praying- that this wasn't a dream.


	22. Unhappy Sons

**South Park GAZETTE**

 **Wednesday, July 26 2017**

 **MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS SICKENS TOWN**

10 cases of an illness with a likeness to the plague have been confirmed. Symptoms include vomiting of blood and other substances, with frequent fainting. The Department of Health advises that people wash their hands frequently and have their vaccines updated (and their pets) until more information about the disease is found.

...

Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could still see it. The three-paneled altarpiece, resting on a gray shelf in the Denver Art Museum. This was their family outing- a day in Denver, where Gerald and Sheila thought they might soften their wild boys by unmasking them to bumpy paintings and sleek sculptures.

A flock of flaming curls fell into the sink. He wasn't a stranger to feeling the buzz of a razor on his scalp.

The piece that Kyle remembered most was that Keith Haring work: silvery-gold hieroglyphics with various arms and legs, cast in bronze. The bodies so tight together, shaking their spoon-like arms, twisting lines and dashes filling the vacant spaces.

Carefully, he snapped on black gloves.

The altarpiece was meant to detail the life of Christ, but at the time, Kyle thought it looked like a music festival. Falling bodies, halos and angel wings, tear drops the size of finger tips. Now that he stared at it more when he closed his eyes, yes, it's Christ. A small child in the center. A heart. A cross. It's an altarpiece, of course, he chided himself. Contemporary Christ.

Coolness surrounded his fingers as he dipped into the purple goop, squishing it in the palm of his hand.

According to an article he read, Haring carved out the images freehand in one session. Total freedom left him breathless, exhilarated, moved. Wild.

Kyle loved this piece. He loved this artist. But the more he pictured the intermingling bodies, the claustrophobia, the chaos, he couldn't help but wonder, if he made an altarpiece showcasing his own life, what grand image would be etched into the top? He couldn't think of anything.

Right now, it was blank.

...

Kenny McCormick crawls into Kyle's window to find that Kyle isn't there. But he knows that he can't be far. In the murky lighting, he can make out the clutter of his desk and resolves to steal a look while he waits.

Taped on the wall was the tarot card: The Fool, above a stack of wire-bound notebooks, a large Ziploc bag of sympathy cards and wilted flowers in the corners. Some had dwindled to the floor.

In a 5 by 7 inch silver frame was a photo of Stan and Kyle. A selfie where both of their faces were scrunched, illuminated by a bright light. Kyle's eyes glowed red. The background was black. Kenny figured they forgot the flash was on but Kyle decided to keep it because it was funny.

Next to it, a photo he didn't expect to see: himself and Kyle on the first day of kindergarten. They were outside in the early September sunlight. Kenny had his arms flung around Kyle's shoulders, his gap-toothed grin peeking just above the cotton of his hood. Kyle's hands held onto Kenny's arms as if he was holding onto the chest guard on a roller coaster, squinting with his equally gleeful gap-toothed smile. Once, they stuck each end of a Twizzler in the other's teeth to see if it would hold. After a couple of tries it did, and neither of them stopped talking about it for the rest of the day.

In an open pocket book, random chemistry notes (no doubt from the study sessions with Karen) were scrawled in his cursive.

 _Dopamine_

 _Serotonin_

 _Oxytocin_

 _Metathesis: a change of place or condition: such as_

 _Transposition of two phonemes in a word_

 _A chemical reaction in which different kinds of molecules exchange parts to form other kinds of molecules._

Kyle opened his bedroom door in nothing but Terence and Phillip boxers, drying his hair with hand towel, droplets of water still clung to his chest like crystalized pears.

"Kenny…" the name breezed out of his mouth like a soaring kite, "Hey."

Kenny tilted his head and folded his hands behind his back, "You don't seem surprised I'm here."

"I had a feeling you were creeping around in my bedroom. Intuition, I guess," Kyle said, closing the door behind him.

"Holy fuck, your hair."

Kyle tossed the towel to the floor. "Yeah… I mean, I ripped most of it out, so why not just cut it all off."

"Uh, sure. It's very short… and purple. Why purple?"

Kyle shrugged, "The lady at Sally Beauty said it was the only color that would take the brassiness out of my hair. You don't like it?"

"No, no, I do. I think it looks nice with your eyes."

"Well, thanks. I like it too," he sat on the side of his bed, "So, what's up?"

"Nothing. I missed you."

"You saw me this morning."

"I know, but… you know."

Smiling, Kyle crossed his legs and ran a hand through his freshly done hair. "I know. I missed you too."

He sat next to Kyle in a satisfied silence. Using his fingers like legs, he walked down Kyle's thigh. Kyle rolled his eyes, bumped his head into Kenny's shoulder, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm not thinking at all."

"Do my parents know you're here?"

"No, I came in through your window."

"Of course you did."

"Are you complaining?"

"No," Kyle leaned into his touch, "I just didn't realize you deliver."

"Oh my god, I'm not a pizza delivery dude."

"Really? You wouldn't give me a Meat Lovers' Special?"

"Oh-kay," Kenny suddenly stood, hands clasped over his head, breathing deeply, "I don't think I can do this."

"Kenny, we're not doing anything. I'm just teasing you. Like how, you know, you tease me _all the time."_

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm flaky."

"Flaky? I don't think you're flaky. You're the most reliable person I know."

"Don't say things like that to me."

"Why?"

"Because it makes me want to fuck you."

"What? Telling you the truth?"

"No… because you're nice to me."

"Why wouldn't I be nice to you?"

"Because. I don't know. I'm not…" he peered over at the photo on the desk, "How long have you had that picture out?"

"I found it after you dropped out. It's been awhile since you've been in my room."

"Yeah…" he sat back down on the bed.

"If anything, Kenny, you're just fidgety. Not flaky," Kyle's voice dove into softness, a gentler tone, "Are you really that scared of me? I'm confused."

"Not scared of you, just nervous. And tense. Super tense. This is different for me. I feel different with you."

"I understand… I get tense too," he scooted back, pulling Kenny in front of him.

"What do you think _you're_ doing?"

Kyle dug his fingers into Kenny's shoulders, "Trying to decompress you- dude-" He felt Kenny slump over, laughing. "Are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm," Kenny leaned back into him, "I'm just not used to being touched like that."

"Well get used to it."

As he felt Kyle's fingertips graze over his scalp, down across the borders of his neck and shoulder blades, he thought of one of the last times he died. It was the fresh hours of the morning. The sun was peeking out, and he had been stabbed in the head. Amongst the crisp, blue, cloudless sky he saw the person, a young man, no one he knew, run off into the distance. The boy, likely around his own age, was scared of Mysterion and acted on pure impulse. The act was so pure, so instinctual, that Kenny couldn't be mad. He fell into the grass with solemn acceptance. One singular vulture floated in circles thousands of feet above him, watching, waiting to make his ribcage a home. Warmth trickled down the back of his head, clinging to his neck and creeping into his ears. He watched the vulture swoop lower and lower. A deer licked the sweat off his face. His fingers twitched. His breath weakened. His eyes closed.

A whisper from the sky: "I love you."

Then a kiss on the top of his head.

He opened his eyes.

Kenny turned himself around and hugged Kyle tightly, pressing him down. He touched his neck, behind his ear, feeling raised bumps of skin.

"That's where the racoon bit me," he said.

"I remember," he leaned down and kissed the bite mark, leaving hot breath hovering over Kyle's skin, then moved to his lips, staying there for a few minutes.

"Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

"Lock the door."

...

"Ugh, Kyle. Your hair." Gerald looked at his son from the kitchen table, who was leaning against the counter, eating an apple. "No one in Shakespeare times had purple hair."

"I didn't realize you were there, Gerald," Kyle didn't even look at him, breaking off the stem and throwing it into the sink. He heard his mother huffing in the living room at use of _Gerald_ instead of 'dad.' "The play has murder, rape, and some thoughtfully-placed cannibalism. No one will care about my hair." He bit and swallowed another piece of Ambrosia.

Gerald rolled his eyes and returned to checking his emails.

Sheila came around the corner and began pouring water into the coffee maker, "You could've at least dyed your eyebrows to match. And whatever happened to sleeves?" She tugged at his gray tank top, "God, the opening goes all the way to your waist- I can see your boxers."

"Yeah, stop dressing like a slut, Kyle," Ike walked in and immediately rummaged through the fridge.

"Oh, good, the other dumbass is here now," Gerald announced as if he were introducing guests at a garden party.

Ike smirked, raised his casted arm like a robot. The other day he attempted to jump off the trampoline and into the swimming pool, but misjudged the distance and shattered his arm on the rim of the pool. Signatures swarmed the wrapping: Kenny, Butters, Mom, KAREN (in all caps surrounded by hearts), Kyle (who also drew a small dick), Sharon, Randy (who also drew a smiley face after deciding it would be too weird to draw a dick on a 13-year old's arm) and any random people that Ike ran into downtown.

"Oh, stop it, Gerald," Sheila said, grabbing her #1 MOM mug from the cabinet.

"It's fucking torrid outside," Kyle countered to Ike, "And who cares if I look like a slut. At least I'm a slut with substance."

"I don't think you look like a slut, Kyle," Sheila said, before Ike could open his mouth. "I just liked your old clothes better. And your hair," she reached up and tried to ruffle it, "You had such pretty hair."

"It'll grow back, Ma. You're being dramatic," Ike said, attempting to pull out milk, eggs and orange juice with one hand. Kyle reached in and pulled them out for him, one at a time.

"First of all, this is Stan's shirt," Kyle explained, a tinge of defensiveness sprouting from his throat, "Secondly, the color will come out after 40 washes."

"40 washes?! Did that dye have Elmer's Glue in it?" Gerald asked.

Kyle shrugged and took another apple bite.

"That's ridiculous."

"You're just mad because you barely have any hair left," Kyle finished the apple and threw it in the trash. Ike stifled a laugh.

"Joke's on you, Kyle. You have my genetics."

"Then I'll make sure they die with me."

"Oh, whatever, I've had enough of you this morning," Gerald picked up his tablet. "I'm going to the computer room."

Kyle called after him, "Yes, because the last few times you were alone with a computer worked out REALLY WELL."

Gerald scoffed and walked upstairs. Once he was out of earshot, Kyle turned to his mother. She was now sitting at the table, face in her hands. She rubbed underneath her eyes and looked up at him. "Ike, can you go somewhere else for five minutes?"

"But I'm about to make an omelet!"

"I'll finish it for you, just go," she rose and turned on the stove, and sprayed a pan. Ike shrugged with one shoulder. He whispered _good luck_ before leaving the kitchen and going into the backyard to sit idly on their old swing set.

Kyle poured his mother's coffee and mixed it with coconut milk before moving it lightly down the counter to her.

"Oh, thank you," she said, cracking an egg.

"What's going on?"

"Before I say anything else, I want you to know that this is a _conversation._ Not a fight. Can you agree to keep it a _conversation_?"

"Sure, I guess."

"No, Kyle, none of this _you guess_. Tell me straight up if you can say yes or no."

The image, like a hologram now, of Stan getting down on one knee before him: _I wanted to wait until your birthday to do this, but the ring finally came yesterday and I couldn't wait._

Then his own, bastard of a response: _I don't know._

Kyle sighed, "Okay, yes."

"I've been noticing some things about you… besides the physical changes. I'm worried."

"About what? I'm fine."

"I've noticed that you haven't been eating as much. Are you planning on having anything else besides that apple?"

Kyle frowned, thinking about all of the food, the soil, God knows what else he threw up. He could have sworn he saw a rabbit's foot at one point.

"I just don't have much of an appetite these days."

She lifted the bottom of the egg with a small spatula, "Maybe- and don't take this the wrong way, Kyle- but maybe we should look into therapy for you It could help you a lot."

"Oh. Well, I know Father Maxi said-"

"-It doesn't have to be Father Maxi. It doesn't have to be Rabbi Yachel either. We can go to someone, somewhere else. As soon as the Shakespeare stuff is over with, I want you to at least consider it, okay?"

"I will. And you know, Ma, doing the play is kind of helping too."

"Is it really?"

"Yeah, it's… it helps to be a part of something."

"Well, good. I can't wait to see it," she scooped Ike's omelet onto a plate, "You can tell him to come in now."

"Wait, what part of that did you think would be a fight?"

Sheila turned off the stove. Her nose twitched slightly, "I hate to ask you this, mostly because I don't want to know, but has Kenny been in your room at night?"

Kyle opened his mouth, figuring whether to lie or tell the truth, his face reddening. If he lied, it wouldn't be a very good one, and if he told the truth, it would still come out sticky with excuses. He couldn't speak. If Kenny were here, he might laugh, grab Kyle by the waist and say something like _Yeah, that's my bad._

"I'll take that as a yes."

"I… I am so sorry."

"Can you just. Maybe. Warn us. Warn us when you have… friends… over. Okay?"

"Um, yeah. Sure. Sorry," he turned to fetch Ike.

"Oh, and Kyle?"

"Yeah, Ma?"

She pulled him into a tight hug. "I don't care what you do or what you look like. I'll always love you very much. You'll always be my baby boy."

...

 _Also, I can kill you with my brain._

Spoken from a character on the television screen in the Rec room- Cartman sat in the corner, at a table, smashing peanuts between his thumb and forefinger. The character was psychic, unstable. Untameable.

"Also, I can kill you with my brain," he repeated to himself.

...

With a sway of his long, red robe, he walked onto the stage, adjusting his crown in the kingliest manner he could muster. At this point of the play, he was used to a hundred pairs of shining eyes on him. A small brisk of fire in his belly rose up and parted his lips. The black eyeshadow and kohl eyeliner, new to his tissue-like skin, stung his eyes, but he kept them wide open.

"Along with me, I'll see what hole is here and what is is that is now leapt into it," he announced, making his way to the painted cave in the center of the stage, garnished with a sheer curtain. Taking a knee before the opening, he caught a glimpse of Kenny in the audience, beaming at him, "Say, who art thou that lately didst descend into this gaping hollow of the earth?"

Another actor whose character had fallen in the pit, answered with a weak cry: "The unhappy sons of Old Andronicus; brought hither in a most unlucky hour, to find thy brother Bassianus dead."

The memory of Ike, tumbling down the hill and into the sinkhole entered his mind. He blinked hard, shook his head quickly, "My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest…"

Kenny watched with awe as Kyle, the unfortunate King Saturninus, come to terms with his brother's death, even as his wife (who will betray him later), asks where his brother might be. Kyle looked out at Kenny, as if speaking to him directly: "Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound: Poor Bassianus here lies murdered."

 _WHAT HAST THOU DONE?! UNNATURAL AND UNKIND?_

Kyle's screams rang through the auditorium. The main character, driven to psychopathy, stabbed his only daughter. A small gasp came from Karen. Her only experiences with Shakespeare so far had been _Romeo and Juliet_ and _The Taming of the Shrew_.

"I don't understand…" she whispered to him as delicately as she could, "She was raped so they had to kill her?"

"I'll explain later…" Kenny whispered back.

He wasn't a big fan of the ending either.

The stepsons of Kyle's character had been the rapists, or the "ravishers" as named in the play, and in turn, were murdered and baked into pies, now being consumed by Kyle and his wife at a kitchen table coated in purple cloth. All of them watched, mouths open, as one after the other, the characters killed each other, ending with Kyle being pushed back and forth between two men, and finally stabbed in the chest with a sword. Kyle collapsed to the ground, his crown rolling off the stage, the sound of clanging metal echoed throughout.

Kenny sighed and looked down at the small bouquet of daisies in his lap.

 _If one good deed in all my life I did,_

 _I do repent it from my very soul._

 _..._

"I didn't like that," Karen said, her arms crossed. "Not that Kyle didn't do a good job… I just didn't like that at all."

"That's okay," Kenny stood next to her in the crowded hall with all the other people waiting for their friends and family that worked on the production.

Ike slid next to her, "We can go see a movie if you want! Would that make you feel better?"

Kenny bit his lip, trying not to laugh. Ike had it bad, he could tell.

"Can I?" she looked up at Kenny with shining, pleading eyes.

"You don't need my permission. Just stay in big groups of people, if you can. Be safe, okay?"

"Cool," she grinned.

Ike took her hand, "Let's go see _The Emoji Movie_."

Karen immediately let go.

"I'm kidding!" Ike said, picking up her hand again, "I know you want to see _Dunkirk,_ obviously."

"Obviously."

They wove through the throngs of people, out the double doors, and into the night. Sheila came out from the bathroom, shaking left over moisture from her hands, "Where are they going, Kenny?"

"On a date, it seems."

"What! Ike didn't ask me if he could go out tonight!"

"I don't know what to tell you Mrs. B, the hormones took over and he never looked back."

"Oh, for crying out loud… and you just let your sister go too?"

"I trust her. And Ike knows that if he messes up, I'll make sure his other arm gets put in a cast," he said, completely straight-faced.

Against her better judgment, Sheila laughed. "Yeah, okay. Sure. Good." She pointed to the flowers he was holding against his chest, "Are those for Kyle?"

"They are…"

"What did you think of the play?" she could sense that he was uncomfortable talking about the relationship at the moment.

"It was kind of difficult to watch at some parts, not going to lie. But Kyle did great."

"I agree. Speaking of which… where is he?"

They noticed some of the other actors had come out and greeted their families, but they had yet to see a tall, now violet-headed man come out to be embraced.

"I'll look for him."

...

Kenny entered the auditorium to see Kyle sitting on the edge of the stage, arms at his sides, legs crossed at the ankles, looking down into the seats.

"Hey, you," Kenny greeted.

Kyle looked up, a sad smile pasted to his face, "Hey, Ken."

"What are you doing in here? Your mom and I have been waiting?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I was just thinking."

Kenny walked in front of Kyle and put his hands on his knees, "Thinking about what?"

"The pit."

"In the play?"

"The one in the woods… Ike almost fell into it, and I… I'm just wondering if anyone else already has, and-"

"-Kyle… We saw the body. We know what happened to Stan, okay? He's not trapped in a pit."

Kenny studied his face, his eyes were still covered in dramatic make-up, working through what was being told to him. "Sometimes I still feel like it's my fault," Kyle said quietly.

"It's not. It never was, and it never will be." he brought the daisies up to Kyle's face, "Hey, these are for you by the way."

Kyle took the flowers and buried his face in them. "I love them." He gave Kenny a quick kiss on the nose before standing up, several feet above Kenny who was still on the floor. "I have something for you too. It's in my backpack in the dressing room. I'll be right back!"

"Your mom is _still_ waiting!" Kenny called after him.

...

 **Entry from one Stan Marsh's journal**

 **March 21, 2013**

 _ **Last night I dreamt**_

 _ **I was falling from trees**_

 _ **The sky under me**_

 _ **In her endless chamber of blue**_

 _ **I heard birds like bells**_

 _ **Ringing for a wedding not to come**_

 _ **A path circled my head**_

 _ **The gravel digging my scalp**_

 _ **I still fall.**_

 **Downtown South Park**

 **Friday, July 28, 2017**

 **9:21pm**

A cup of steaming coffee in his hands and a promise from Tweek and Craig that they would see the next showing of his play, Kyle walked down the street with Kenny, their shadows stretched before them through the street lights.

"This helps," he said, speaking into the cup, "I'm so fucking tired."

"I can imagine," Kenny chuckled. "You went through a lot up there."

"Tell me about it."

"I kind of like the make-up on you, by the way."

"Ha, really?"

"It matches your personality really well."

"Oh, shut up."

They continued walking down the street, past Token's house and the Senior Center, and the mall where the small theater was still operating. Kyle didn't want to go home just yet. He had asked Kenny to walk with him for awhile, enjoy the summer nights before they were replaced by mounds of snow and ice again. When they approached Skeeter's Wine Bar, Kenny stopped.

"Finish your coffee," he said.

"Already done," Kyle was shoving the cup in an overfilled trash bin.

"Good. This is my spot."

"What do you mean your spot?"

"You'll see. Get on my back."

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, Marsh. Put your arms around me."

"Dude, I'm so heavy-"

Kenny took Kyle's arms and wrapped them around his shoulders.

"Hold on tight," he said, before scaling the side of the building, lifting a bewildered Kyle with him up onto the roof. When he let go, Kyle could see the roof was indeed a miniature campsite. A medium-sized cooler and a pile of blankets and pillows were set up in the center. "Sometimes at night I watch for things here," Kenny explained. "Funnily enough, most crimes are committed by drunk people. But I can see everything from here."

"It's…" Kyle trailed off, looking out onto the town. The soft, glistening lights. A quiet breeze folded over the roofs of the little houses that lined the neighborhood. "It's a great view."

"Yeah, you are."

Kenny laid out the blankets into a comfortable circle so the two of them could look up at the dark sky.

"I don't think I could ever live in a big city," Kyle said, not taking his eyes off the Teapot constellation. "Too much light pollution. Too much noise."

"I feel that," Kenny agreed, though he wasn't looking at the stars.

"Oh, that reminds me. The thing I have for you," Kyle grabbed his backpack that now had the daisies sticking out of it. He put them aside and fished, pulling out a certificate and photograph. Turning on the flashlight of his phone, he read the certificate out loud: "A star has been named in honor of Kenny McCormick, the star is located at celestial coordinates Right Ascension six hours and 39 minutes, Declination 2 16' 22.7"."

"I don't… I don't understand."

"I know it sounds dumb, but I adopted a star from you. Look at the picture."

They huddled close together, the flashlight shining on a photograph of stars, a thin white box around one brighter star in particular, with the label _Kenny McCormick._

"It's somewhere out there," Kyle said, pushing his palm up to the sky as if he were feeling a tapestry on a wall. He looked over to see that Kenny was crying, tears close to sparkling stars on his cheeks. "Oh my god, are you okay?"

Kenny sniffled, wiping them away, "Mm-hm. I'm sorry. That's the nicest thing anyone has done for me."

"Aw, Ken…" he put his arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

"Why did you do it?"

"I just thought that… I don't know. You always think that people forget about you, but they really don't. I wanted you to know that you're a star in a lot of people's lives. Especially mine. And even after all of us are gone, that star-" he pointed toward it, " _your_ star, will always be there."

"Kyle, I…" he turned and hugged him. Suddenly he wanted to admit everything: the letters from Cartman, the jealousy of Stan, the blood he was still coughing up, how every day he felt weaker, how each blow with death felt like it would be his last one. He cupped Kyle's face in his hands, "Kyle, are you happy?"

"I-"

The loud warbling of ambulance sirens turned a corner nearby, headed toward the mall.

"Oh, shit. We should go," Kyle stood. "The kids are there, aren't they?"

"Someone probably had a seizure," Kenny shrugged. "It happens a lot."

"What does Mysterion do when someone has a seizure?"

"Give them my cape to bite or lay on."

Kyle grinned, picking up his daisies and the papers. "I can just drop these off at your house later, since you don't have anything to put them in."

"Sure," he pulled him into a long kiss before they jumped back down to the sidewalk.

"To answer your question," Kyle huffed as they lightly jogged down the sidewalk, "I think, despite everything, I'm happy. I feel happy."

They smiled at each other before breaking into longer sprints toward the theater.

...

 **South Park Theater**

 **Friday, July 28, 2017**

 **8:47 pm**

Bristling with warm chatter, the people standing in line at the concession stand wavered about, watching the giant screen above the popcorn machine play trailers for upcoming movies. Others walked through the lobby, stepping to the rhythm of paper tickets ripping, pointing at different posters with their friends and family ( _I want to see that! Me too!_ ).

Heidi Turner stood at the counter, simultaneously waiting for Butters to return from the bathroom and Clyde Donovan. Clyde, now a seasoned "Corndog Expert" as he called it, to return with her large order of popcorn and Cokes. For now, she spent her weekdays as a counselor at Science Camp, crafting paper mache volcanoes and planet mobiles. It crossed her mind on more than one occasion if Kyle might want to work with her, but could never figure out an appropriate time to ask.

"Here you go, Heidi," Clyde plopped the bag on the counter.

"Thanks," she grabbed it with hands still graffitied by Crayola markers and glitter. "I like the uniform, by the way. They're really making a man out of you here, huh?"

Clyde shrugged, his polyester red shirt seemed to hang in the air like the ghosts of shoulder pads, "I guess. Sometimes I just stand in the janitor's closet and eat expired nachos and cry."

"Nachos expire?"

"Everything expires, Heidi. Hotdogs, popcorn, freedom, hope…"

"Clyde."

"Sorry. I shouldn't be complaining. It's nacho problem."

"Oh god."

Butters bounded up to them, touched Heidi's elbow, "Hey, are you done?"

"Hey man," Clyde greeted, "Sorry, yeah, just charging your girlfriend ten dollars for popcorn."

"Criminal," Butters laughed.

They made their way through the dimly lit rows looking for a seat. In the chairs behind them, they saw Karen and Ike sharing a jumbo popcorn.

"Hey guys!" Butters caught them off guard.

Karen beamed up at them, "Hey, Butters! And you're… Heidi, right?"

"Yes, hi, nice to see you. God, it's been so long. Do you guys mind if we sit in front of you?"

"Nah," Ike replied.

"What happened to your arm?"

"Oh, you know. Broke it on the edge of a pool."

Karen nudged him, "Go on, tell her why."

Ike tilted his head back with an exasperated sigh. "To quote Gerald, I was: _showing off for my little girlfriend and tried to Superman from the trampoline to the pool. And failed because I am a dumbass_."

"Wow," Heidi nodded, amused at how much Ike was like Kyle, "Well, looks like it worked."

She whipped around to sit, accidentally knocking over the bag in Butters's hands, sending popcorn everywhere.

"Oh, shit," she scrambled to try and pick it all up. "Oh fuck, I fucked up…"

"No, don't," Butters stopped her, "Baby, it's okay. Not a big deal. I'll get a broom from someone."

"I'll go with you to get a refill," Karen piped up.

They exited the theater, Heidi gripping the half-full popcorn bag.

"Are you okay, Heidi? You look a little pale."

"I don't know. I've been sick on and off the past few weeks. I feel kinda nauseous."

"I'll wait in line if you want to go to the bathroom."

"That's okay," they stood in line behind a group of teenagers arguing amongst each other about what they wanted, what they could afford. Heidi cleared her throat, "So, Karen, do you have a job right now?"

"No, I could probably get one though. I just need a worker's permit. I'm only 15."

"You're 15? That's perfect, actually. You know, you're old enough to be a Junior Counselor at South Park Science Camp."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you could help me do projects with the kids. They're all ten and under, but they're fun. It's only for the second half of summer, but the job is yours, if you want it."

"Oh my god, I'd love to. I mean, I'm not really good at- well, I'm re-learning some chemistry stuff, but- Heidi?"

Heidi swallowed harshly, her throat bulging like a cat about to spit up a hairball. "Not a-again," she gasped, then heaved into the bag. Heavy blood spatters smacked the walls of the paper, some of it landing on the side of Karen's face. Heidi dropped the bag, and Karen could see for a glimmer of a moment, that some of Heidi's teeth had fallen into the popcorn.

Heidi collapsed to the ground, head smacking against the concrete floor, sending flurries of feet to the far ends of the lobby, leaving Karen to stand over Heidi's now lifeless body. Screaming filled the building. Veins like the legs of blood-covered spider slithered out of her open mouth and gripped her jaw and cheeks.

Karen, eyes wide, arms shaking, slowly backed away. Someone takes her shoulders, lifts her up and takes her back completely- one of the employees that smells of cheese and elephant ears. She watched Kenny die before, but he always got up. He always did. She whispered over and over: _get up, please. Get up, get up, get up, get up…_

 _..._

 **South Park Theater**

 **Friday, July 28, 2017**

 **9:54 pm**

Not everything was like the movies, Karen was quickly realizing. No police officer offered her a blanket, no dramatic music playing in her ears. Ike couldn't speak at all. He sat by her, staring at his feet on the grass.

She couldn't shake the image of Heidi, chatting with her one second, cold on the ground the next. Gone. Just like that.

No one could find Butters.

...

It was like moving through a still life portrait, or figures engraved in wood. Dipped into bronze. The stands of people all gawking up at the center panel, the boy swaying on the roof hundreds of feet above them. On the edge, a hollowed out, taxidermied and flightless bird- his toes peeked out over the edge.

Kenny grabs onto his sister's shoulder, wipes the blood off her cheek, while Kyle picks up his brother, not if he were a teenager, but a baby again. At first, they don't know what is being stared at. Then spotlights find him, the boy in the blue tee-shirt, watching them back, his face burning with tears.

The screams instructing him not to plunge aren't enough to penetrate the desire, the infectious need to end it. Kenny rushes forward. He thinks he can catch him and take him to the hospital. He thinks that in a few weeks he'll be back at the garage helping him fix shitty cars. He thinks he's running fast enough.

He never gets there.

The chalk outline of Butters on cement reminds Kyle of those lingering Keith Haring figures, forever stuck, etched into wood, or a bold streak of bright paint, until the rain, the weathering of time, washes him away.

31


	23. Gravemaker

" **Gravemaker" by Butcher Babies: watch?v=JZxuGDUnp1U**

 **Saturday, July 29, 2017**

 **2:37 am**

 **South Park Cemetery**

 **PENALTY FOR DESTRUCTION OF CEMETERY PROPERTY PUNISHABLE BY $500 FINE OR ONE YEAR IN JAIL**

 **VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED**

 **CITY OF SOUTH PARK**

Kenny read the sign over and over again, its white reflective stance juxtaposed against the dark fence.

In his right hand, he held one of Kyle's old cigarettes, the small sunrise of it glowing, tainting the air around him with smoke. In his left hand, he held a shovel.

The cemetery gate took a downward tilt before him. There was still a choice to be made here. He could still go home. Try to sleep. Kill the curiosity.

He would watch other people die from afar, wondering if it had all started with Stan.

No.

Eric.

Taking a long drag off the cigarette, he read the sign again.

"Sorry, Stan," he said into the humid night, "But I have to know."

...

He never imagined himself exhuming the body of a friend from their grave, but then again, a lot of things he was doing lately were things he never imagined.

Karen and Ike were brought home and tucked into bed. Kyle laid out a sleeping bag on the floor of Ike's bedroom so he wouldn't be alone. It took Karen several hours, and finally a small dosage of Vicodin, to fall asleep. All the way home, all she could do was mutter: "Get up, get up, get up…" quietly from the passenger's seat.

They passed by the pencil marks on her door frame, little graphite dashes that he drew to track her growth over the years. Today was a new mark, a sordid one, that could never be erased or painted over.

 **STARE WITH ME INTO THE ABYSS**

It was as if Stan were yelling at him from below six feet of dirt.

 _Stare with me into the abyss, you should be down here with me, asshole!_

He didn't want to do this. Sew onto this quilt of a fucked-up narrative, the square that would show him digging. He dropped the cigarette and stomped it out.

"Please, please forgive me."

...

Stan told Kenny once that he wanted to be cremated, burned on a slab like a pizza in a brick oven.

"It's a bit early to be thinking about that, isn't it?" Kenny asked, sitting at the Marsh's kitchen table, shuffling a deck of cards.

Stan shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't think so. I was just thinking about it, and when I die, I don't want to take up space, you know?" He pulled a can of Dr. Pepper from the fridge, snapped open the top, and sucked the bubbles from the aluminum lip.

"Where would you want us to scatter you?"

Without hesitation, Stan pointed out the kitchen window.

"In the mountains. I would want to be in the mountains."

...

As he dug, he thought about how if anyone else knew that Stan would want to be cremated, he wouldn't need to be doing this right now. He wondered what Heidi and Butters would have wanted; if they ever told anyone. Maybe they only told each other.

The threads of dawn were snaking their way into the sky. With a brisk thud, the tip of his shovel hit the casket. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and scooped the dirt, the wrangling worms- left, right, left, right- until the lid could be easily opened. He threw the shovel aside, and pulled his shirt over his nose, preparing for the smell.

"Okay, okay…" he inserted his fingers under the door, "1...2...3…"

With his one last burst of remaining strength, he swung open the lid.

Stan was very much still there, but-

(he should be flatter)

-there was no smell.

No bugs.

Most, importantly, no signs of decay.

He knew after so many days, he should look redder, skinnier.

(no)

(this)

(this is not real)

Kenny leaned down and cradled Stan's perfectly flawless face. The skin was definitely cold, which he expected, but unnaturally smooth, like the glass dolls Karen used to have. He ran a finger over his left eyebrow, gasping when what felt like black pain smeared.

"No, no… Fuck. I'm so sorry, Stan."

Part of him still believed it was Stan, hence the apology, but still, he raised his foot, and kicked the face in.

(?!)

The sound was that of his mother throwing dishes at his father when she was upset with him. The sound was a million fragments that couldn't be glued together.

(porcelain)

White pieces of Stan's face embedded in the satin, fractions of lips, nose, and eyes- a constellation of a face scattered about. A morbid mosaic, yet to come together.


	24. As I Lay Dying

I told him to turn down the music and he obliged, ears perked like a dingo because he thought I may say something: either a brilliant revelation or a dumb story about something that happened at school, but neither avenue was open. I had nothing. Wanted to feel nothing.

I told him to turn it off, just turn it off.

"You don't want _any_ music?" He was so shocked. That's how he figured something was wrong with me. I never asked for this before. I've never asked for silence. I was hoping it would balance out the screaming in my head.

He asked, "Are you okay, Stan?"

I should have fucking told him the truth. I should have said that I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, my skin stung, my bones scraped against each other.

But I didn't.

I said, "I'm fine. I just have a headache."

In that moment, things were peaceful. It was a nice drive home. We had a good day.

As we drove, I focused on the birds sitting on power lines, little dark lumps on electric strings in the sky.

We went apple picking that day and he lifted me up to get to the best ones and later in the afternoon it became chilly so we had hot cider and I remember he was wearing a black sweater and the side of his cheek was shining with autumn sweat and I loved him so much.

I didn't want to hurt him by telling him I was hurting.

We were having a good day.

And I had a problem with it.

I wish I could see birds again.

I wish I could see Kyle again.

I miss him.

He's probably forgotten about me.


	25. Lesson Learned

**A/N: Hey y'all! It's been a hot second since I've updated and I'm terribly, terribly sorry about that. Trust me, I've been trying. I ran into some deep, personal issues with my family, and unfortunately, my love life. It made it very difficult to write something that relies on love when you're questioning if love actually exists for you.**

 **But, some time has passed, and I'm getting over them.**

 **Never, ever, try to chase people that don't want you. Don't pursue someone who doesn't even ask you how your day is. It doesn't matter how much you love them. Know your worth 3**

 _ **The tyrant can always find an excuse for his tyranny.**_

 _ **The unjust will not listen to the reasoning of the innocent.**_

 _ **-lesson from "The Wolf and the Lamb" for The Aesop for Children**_

Kenny twisted away from the scene, leaving behind the shovel, the cigarette, the body that everyone thought was Stan's. Swiftly, he entered his truck and sped off, the engine whirring as loudly as his own stomach.

(do i tell kyle)

(what would i even say)

Movements of morning - store lights switching on, people sipping coffee and chatting on the sidewalk, parents shoveling their children into minivans - one of these movements now was Kenny, pressing on the gas, trying not to cry. So badly he wanted to pull over and cry.

Maybe he could let some tears fall at this upcoming stoplight.

...

Their mother tried to do something nice for them for once. One winter morning, when the snow was building up from mole hills to mountains against the windows, she burst into their bedroom and announced that they were driving out to see Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Kibbs.

Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Kibbs lived in Tampa. In fact, Uncle Kibbs wasn't even living anymore. He had been bitten, wrangled, and drowned by the alligator he found in their pool.

When the news about Kibbs reached them through their mustard-stained telephone, Carol announced it to everyone in the family room with wringing hands, visibly disturbed. Their father huffed, scanning the T.V. channels, and commented, "Good thing there's no gators _here._ "

This pissed Kenny off. His father couldn't even muster a "Sorry about your brother."

It was clear that their dear mother was off her medication again. She urged them to stuff all of their belongings into black garbage bags and load them into the truck. Kevin and Kenny whined, scrunched their pillows over their heads to block out her incessant goading. She whipped their blankets off and said "Chop-chop, kiddos. I'm doing something _nice_ for you."

The prospect of driving all the way to Florida in the middle of frosty January did not excite the boys, but they stuffed their clothes and toys into bags anyway, put on coats and snow boots and waded through the debris on the living room floor: a collective of beer cans, White Castle slider boxes, empty pop bottles, clumps of loose leaf tea (from when Carol insisted that they save up for a cast-iron pot, as if brewing tea together and sipping it from little clay cups would grease the gears of their dysfunctional family), and finally, the centerpiece of the trash palace, their father passed on the couch snoring heavily, his jeans pulled down to his ankles, suggesting that in his drunken stupor, tried to get undressed and go to bed, but failed horribly.

"What's daddy doing?" little Karen asked, still blinking sleep from her eyes, holding onto lopsided pigtails.

"Don't worry about it," Kenny took her hand and led her out the door.

Once outside, they would load up their trash bags and wait in the truck for their mother. She finally emerged after several minutes of the kids shivering in the backseat. Carol wore a long a knee-length faux fur coat and carried a small, clear bin of toiletries.

The unspoken pact between Kenny and his brother was this: _let Mom run out her crazy moments. Just go with it. Don't say anything else. Don't make her upset._

Carol would drive, at best, a little past downtown, realize what she was doing, and turn back, they figured. There was no way she would go through with it and drive all the way to the land of swamps and golf courses.

They reached the corner of South Park Elementary and slid into a snow-filled ditch. Balding tires made it impossible for her to back out.

They watched their mother, who was only trying to do something nice, only trying to escape, kick the tires and scream un-Christian things, her frozen breath expanding and dissolving into the air with each curse.

"It must suck to feel so trapped like that," Kenny said lowly to Kevin.

"All of us are stuck here. It's too snowy to actually go anywhere."

"I mean to be trapped in your own head like that. Nowhere to go."

…

 _Still water runs deep, Ken._

Kyle had told him this in a moment of trust. Intimacy. He was trying to tell Kenny that he's a thoughtful person. A kind, selfless, introspective person.

(should i tell kyle)

The stinging of guilt pierced his heart.

 _Still water also harbors bacteria_ , he wanted to tell Kyle now. _Still water covers disease, bottom-feeders, scavengers, bodies, secrets. Still water can kill a person if ingested._

(i kill)

(thats all i do)

For the life of him, he couldn't imagine where Stan might be. Kyle told him that Stan wanted to run away. So where would he be? California? Alaska? Corpus Christi? Right under their noses?

(probably)

 _The pit._

 _The one in the play?_

 _The one in the woods… Ike almost fell into it… I'm just wondering if anyone else already has…_

(holy fuck)

Cartman, he also remembered, never gave him a clear answer on if he had anything to do with Stan missing.

(i could go)

(i could go to the pit and see)

…

First, he broke the layers of yellow tape with his teeth. Then, he threw a rock the size of a newborn baby - it needed to be something large enough for a pit to swallow. He lay on his belly and tried to listen, to hear if the rock would make a sound, landing in a hollow cave below them. It sunk slowly. He listened intently, pretended to meditate, shut off all other sounds. He watched the stone become a pebble and finally disappear. For a few minutes, he waited for the drop. Almost like the New York ball drop. This time there was no countdown, no kiss at the end. He needed help.

…

He white-knuckled the steering wheel. The road seemed to tilt downward in front of him. People faded from view. Kenny pictured all the ways Kyle might react when he told him that he needed help - that he was right, Kenny was wrong. Kyle suspected him of having malevolent motivations before, how would he get around this now? _I'm sorry, Kyle. I mean, I had a *feeling* that Stan wasn't totally dead but what was I supposed to do? I was too busy taking care of you. So really, this is probably your fault._

(my fault)

(stop i t)

(this is nobodys fault and now youre thinking like h i m)

(just stop)

(why would i think that about kyle though)

(just stop

let it go)

(how could i look at kyles face and tell him its his fault)

(ill break his fucking legs)

Kenny swallowed the extra spit that was starting to leak from his lips.

(theyre just instrusive thoughts they dont mean anything)

(i would never think this way)

His brain was on fire.

"Get the fuck out of my head, asshole."

The truck surged forward, blowing through a four-way stop, a few spectators yelling and honking their horns.

"Oh, fuck, fuck fuck fuck…" He pumped the brakes but the pedal was rigid as if something might be stuck underneath. Maneuvering his boot around the area but couldn't feel anything, not even a bottle. Nothing to kick. The pedal was stuck on its own.

(hes trying to kill me!)

(get rid of me for a few hours)

Panting heavily, he steered off-road, into a field near the school. He unclipped his seat belt and prepared to open the door to jump out. Two tires popped, plummeting the truck into a sideways tilt. It skidded on the side and rolled into a nearby ditch, forcing Kenny to violently swing back and forth throughout. The dashboard met his square, fair face right on the bridge of his pointed nose, shattering it.

That rusted, aqua and ivory he loved so much finally came to a halt. On its side like a beached whale - tires still spinning, the whining belt slowing down like a mechanical death rattle.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Kenny screamed again, one hand over his nose, the other curled into a fist, slamming onto the dashboard. _"Why are you doing this to us?"_

He meant the question for Cartman, but it could have been for anyone - maybe God. Whoever the fuck was listening.

He tried the door that faced the sky - maybe he could worm his way up - but it wouldn't budge. He kicked the windshield, forming glass spiderwebs around his foot, until it gave way.

…

Kenny knocked on the Broflovski's front door. Ike, pale and tired, slowly opened it.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" He examined Kenny's purple face with bulging eyes.

"I broke my nose, no big deal," he walked past Ike and into the living room. Soft crying came from the kitchen, and then _don't worry Sharon, they'll find the bastard that did this._ "Where's Kyle?"

"I thought he was with you," Ike shrugged. "Didn't you hear? Some asshole… dug up Stan. They smashed his skull in. There's a cop in there with my mom and Stan's mom."

"Oh, shit," Kenny swallowed, "I have to go."

"Huh?"

"Listen, Ike, I know that yesterday was rough on you, but I need you to think. Did Kyle say _anything_ to you about where he was going?"

"No. Check his Snapchat location."

Kenny squeezed Ike's shoulder, "Smart. I keep forgetting we're in the 21st century."

Ike nodded sadly. Kenny opened the app, and zeroed in on Kyle's location.

"Son of a bitch!"

"What?"

The sound of footsteps inched toward the living room. Not Sharon of Sheila's. Authoritative ones.

"Is Kyle in danger?" Ike whispered.

Kenny was grabbing fistfuls of his hair, "He might be."

"He might be what?" The officer - a tall, muscled man with the eyes of a velociraptor approached them, thumbs in his belt. "Who are we talking about, boys?"

Kenny couldn't speak. He was usually good with officers, he was never a wrong-doer. But he felt as if Officer Eyes could look right through him.

"My brother," Ike spoke up. "And his boyfriend, is out getting ice cream for us."

"Bit early for ice cream, don't you think?"

"Pfft, people have donuts for breakfast, how is that any different?" Ike said this as if he'd been practicing lines from a play for weeks. He put his hands on his hips, "Kenny and Kyle had a stupid fight and he's making it up to him… with ice cream. Wouldn't you do the same for your wife?"

Sheila and Sharon appeared in the opening between the living room and kitchen. Sharon gripped a tissue in her hands, mascara rings around her eyes. Officer Eyes glanced quickly between the two of them.

"I'm divorced," he said.

"And that could have been saved with some ice cream," Ike said without missing a beat, "Could have avoided that "Rocky Road", if you will."

The officer shook his head at Ike, and stared directly at Kenny. "Aren't you Stuart's boy?"

Kenny nodded, looking him up and down.

"What happened to your nose? Did you get into a fight?"

"No, sir."

He walked up to Kenny, continuing his silent scrutinization, "You know, I pick up your dad a lot. That asshole is always drunk. Always picking fights with people. The man has anger issues."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Kenny murmured.

"Well," He looked closely at Kenny's bruised face, his red eyes, matted hair, "You've got that same look in your eyes as him. Both of you smell like dirt. Guess the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree…"

"Hey now," Sheila chirped, "Kenny's a good kid. He's nothing like his father."

"Yeah, you're being un-cone-stitutional!"

" _Ike._ Officer, with all due respect, I don't appreciate you interrogating my kids in my own house. It's _my fucking house_ …" Sheila began ranting, hands raised, her yelling filling the house.

Sharon looked over at Kenny. He looked almost dead. Sad. For a brief moment, he met her gaze, then looked away. Stan looked like that sometimes, she remembered.

She pushed past the officer and threw her arms around Kenny, squeezing him hard, like how she did for Stan so many times.

Still holding on to Kenny, running her hand over his head, she joined Sheila in the yelling, "And when do I get to see Stan? You _still_ haven't answered me!"

Kenny closed his eyes. He pictured Stan's fake body again, shattered like a vase.

"It's not for the faint of heart," the officer waved her off, "Lady, you wouldn't be able to handle it."

" _I'll fucking say what I can handle, Officer Twat_ ," she loosened up on Kenny put kept a hand on his arm, "Not even two months ago I saw my son on a fucking cold metal table, strangled to death - with, with- _fucking maggots_ crawling out his face and now you want to tell me I'm too faint of heart? Is that all you do? Make assumptions about people all day?"

Officer Eyes scoffed, "Look, I'm just saying. It's really bad."

"I'm sure it is. But I need to see. I need to know. I want to see my son," Sharon turned to Kenny and whispered, "Go get Kyle, please. He should be home."

Kenny nodded and took off, Ike trailing behind him.

"Where's your truck?" Ike asked as soon as they ran outside.

"It's, um… in the shop. Broke down."

"How are you gonna get to Kyle?"

"I… run, I guess. I don't know. I can't think straight."

"Here," Ike dug into his jean pocket and pulled out a ring of keys, plucked one off and tossed it to Kenny.

"What's this?"

"It's for Stan's car," he gestured to the relic in the next-door driveway.

"Oh, fuck," Kenny groaned. "I hope it starts."

"It does. I tried the other day."

Kenny crawled in and started the engine. It was weak, but it worked. Ike poked his head in the window.

"Can I come with you?"

"No," Kenny pressed down on the brakes, shifted the gear to reverse. "The place where your brother is… you don't need to be there. He shouldn't be there either."

…

 **October 29, 2016**

The makeup was beginning to itch, as well as the gel that slicked his hair back. Like tiny, tiny daggers in his scalp. He adjusted the Pope hat so he could scratch. Stan tripped on a rock in the driveway, startling him.

"You didn't see that," he mumbled.

"Sure did."

The Black's manicured lawn of lush grass and heavenly rose bushes was already littered with intoxicated teens, bobbing for apples and making out on porch steps.

A Bob Ross Bebe danced up to them, pushed her paintbrush into Kyle's neck and asked if he would "baptize" her. With his prop cane, Stan slowly pushed her back into a lounge chair where she lopped and passed out.

"She's definitely white girl wasted," he said. "That's shit's dangerous. What would I have done if she turned you straight?"

"Pfft, yeah," Kyle squeezed his boyfriend's shoulder. "I guess we should get white girl wasted too. I want to be that bold."

Stan took Kyle's hand as they crossed the threshold of the front door, "I think you're bold enough."

"I try."

"You succeed."

"No, I just _succ_."

"Only when it counts," Stan winked. The music, some techno remix of the _Halloween_ theme song, swelled around them.

They found Token in the kitchen in a full-on _Sailor Moon_ costume, rearranging horror-themed snacks on the counter island. Nichole stood by him, dressed as Tuxedo Mask. They looked up at the boys.

"You guys are finally here," Token said. He looked at Stan, "Oh, you're the guy from _A Clockwork Orange!_ That's so cool!"

"And you're…" Nichole eyed Kyle up and down, "a goth Pope?"

"I mean, technically, yeah. It's from a band called Ghost."

"Oh, cool," she said, although it was very clear that she didn't think it was cool.

"Welp," Token held up two red solo cups, "let's get some poison in you guys - oh, wait. Hold on." He pulled a label-maker from the drawer and began typing.

Nichole rolled her eyes. "Why can't you just use a marker like normal people?"

"I _like_ using the label-maker," Token said through his teeth, though they were both giggling. They watched STAN then KYLE be printed out, cut, and stuck to cups. "Okay, _now_ let's get some poison in you guys. What do you want?"

Stan quickly scanned the bottles on the counter, "Surprise us."

"Got it."

Butters emerged from the living room in a pink dress, blue jacket, and a trickle of blood from one of his nostrils.

"Hey, fellas!"

"Hi Butters, how are you-"

"-I'm Eleven, so shut the fuck up," Butters said, gleefully clapping his hands together, "I've been wanting to say that all night. You guys have no idea." He swiped a Rice Krispies treat from the counter, "Have you guys seen Heidi - I mean, Sue Sylvester?"

" _Sue_ is in the backyard playing drunk volleyball with a Stormtrooper," Nichole said, pointing to the back door, "So you guys are trying _that_ again, huh?"

"Trying. But I think we're getting somewhere this time. I laid my cards out on the table, she laid out hers. We're just not going to worry about the little stuff anymore," he looked over at Kyle and Stan now. "We just want to have fun. Enjoy our time with each other, you know?"

They both nodded.

"Yeah, for sure," Kyle added.

"Right," Butters took another treat, "Well, I'll go check on her." He eyed Stan and Kyle a bit more closely, "You guys look like you came straight from Hell, by the way."

"Thanks?" Stan said.

Butters shrugged, popped the dessert in his mouth and walked off.

"So, where's Kenny?" Token asked, sliding their cups forward.

"We asked him to come but he only said he'd think about it," Kyle said, shaking around the light blue liquid in his cup, "I think he thinks that he shouldn't be a part of these things anymore."

"Sucks that he feels that way," Nichole said. Stan shrugged.

"What did you give us?" Kyle asked, circling the cup some more.

"Drink and find out."

Laughter echoed from outside. The song changed to "Monster Mash." The burning chemical smell of fog machines, of sweat, plastic, cinnamon, and alcohol filled them. Kyle already felt like a fleshy Jack O'Lantern - insides harshly scooped out and plopped onto a damp paper towel, permanent grin carved into his face by an angry father.

Stan raised his cup, "Cheers."

"To what?" Kyle asked, skeptical.

"To not knowing what we're getting into. To Kenny hopefully coming around one day. To being bold," he glanced down at Kyle's resting hand. No one else would ever see it, but he remembered the red ring around Kyle's wrist there his father gripped him too tightly. Feeling the stinging as if it were his own skin, he looked back up into Kyle's skeptical eyes, through the contacts. "To sticking up for yourself. We're always stronger than we think we are. So, cheers."

They drank.

At 3 AM when mostly everyone had gone home or fallen asleep, Stan and Kyle sat on a wicker loveseat in the Black's screened-in back porch. Kyle had his legs across Stan's lap, breathing quietly, half-asleep. His Pope hat was somewhere on the floor and the robes were being used by Bebe as a blanket. Stan rested his hands on Kyle's knees, looking blankly into the distance. Neither of them were totally drunk, but their collective grasp of sober was gone.

Kyle opened his eyes and stared at the side of Stan's face: the whites of his eyes, sharp nose, lips always the color of a shy pink.

Stan caught his stare, "What?"

"Nothing. You're just cute."

"Stop. That's you."

"Nah."

"Bebe seems to think so."

"Oh god," Kyle adjusted himself so he could sit up more, "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why do you think Kenny doesn't come around anymore?"

"I don't know, Kyle… I mean, he's busy."

"Everyone's busy, dude. But he doesn't even try. He doesn't even respond to my messages."

Stan sighed, "Look, I think we both really know why but neither of us wants to say it out loud."

"Maybe he has a crush on you and he hates me."

Stan shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh, "He would never like me like that. But I do think he's jealous, Kyle. You hang out with a couple and you become the third wheel."

"I don't think we've ever made him feel excluded. It has to be something else."

"Maybe to him, it feels like exclusion. We don't know."

"Shit, maybe he likes me," Kyle teased.

"Yeah, he probably does. He likes you and wants to put me in a box somewhere," Stan rolled his eyes, though parts of his heart knew. He knew. "I'd kick his ass."

"No, you wouldn't. You're too nice."

"Can we change the subject?"

"Um, yeah, sure. To what?"

"I don't know. I'm so tired. Maybe we should just sleep."

Kyle knocked off Stan's bowler hat, pulled him in and curled up together.

"Stan?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you for saying what you said earlier… about sticking up for yourself. It made me feel better."

"Well, you know… I just think you're braver than you think you are," he murmured into his chest. "You're tough, Kyle. You really are. I just wish you didn't feel like you have to fight alone."

…

He found Kyle sitting in his Jeep at the Juvenile Detention Center, hands on the wheel. Kyle barely looked at him when he pulled up in Stan's monstrosity.

Kenny knocked on the window frame.

"Can I come in?"

"No. I'm waiting for visitation hours to start."

"You're not going in there, Kyle. I won't let you. Besides, your mom needs you home-"

"-You know, when I was growing up, my parents always told me 'good sons don't make a fuss, Kyle.' My dad shoved his hand into my chest when I wasn't sitting up straight. He called me emo whenever I got upset about something. All my life, I've been a blank slate they could write all over."

"That's not true…"

"Yes, it is! And I'm tired of it," he finally looked at Kenny, eyes and cheeks shining with tears. "I'm tired. And I don't want to be tired anymore."

Kenny reached in and cupped his face, "What do you want me to do?"

"I know that bastard is behind this, and I… didn't want to believe it but, he knew. He knew that I was sick, or cursed, right after I threw up that first time."

"What do you mean? Wait, when was the last time you talked to him?"

"A couple months ago. I just had a feeling he was behind it."

"You went _by yourself?!_ Why didn't you tell me?"

"What's there to tell? I'm sure you know more than me."

"Why would I?"

Kyle brushed Kenny's hand off his face. With a sigh, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out with shaking fingers and snapped it in front of Kenny's face, "I snuck into your room really early this morning because I-" his voice broke and warbled. "I wanted you to hold me. Maybe tell me it's all in my head. That I'm making a big… fuss over things that aren't happening, that what happened to Heidi and Butters was just a fruitless tragedy. It wasn't connected to anything else. But you weren't there. And I found his letter on your dresser!"

Kyle crumpled the note up again, the vile threats of Cartman, and threw it. The wad hit Kenny's chest and rolled to the pavement.

"Kyle, I-"

"How could you do this to me?"

"I don't how to-"

" _Why?!_ "

Kenny backed away, wiping his forehead with his arm, trying not to cry, not to yell back, "Look, at first, I kind of felt bad for him, okay? Obviously he needed help, but over time, he just got worse and worse and I had to cut him off. He didn't take it well. He's… absolutely evil, Kyle. He wants all of us dead."

"Well," Kyle stared at the distraught Kenny, a sliver of something vengeful flashed across his face. It scared Kenny. He recognized it too well. "I want him dead, too."

Kyle stepped out of the Jeep and started walking towards the entrance. Kenny grabbed his elbow, "You're not fucking going in there!"

"Fuck off!" Kyle jerked his arm violently, "He killed Stan, Butters, and Heidi! They don't get to come back like you do! Who else does he get to kill? My brother? Your sister? _Me?_ I'm going to stop him now because I don't want to find out."

"What are you going to do? Sneak into his cell and shank him? You can't."

Kyle stopped moving. He dropped his arm, "What?"

"I said, _you can't._ You're not… I'm sorry, you're just not capable. Go home."

Kenny hated telling him this, but he didn't know any other way to deter Kyle from walking into his death. "You almost died from racoon scratches, dude. Stan and I had to save you…"

"That was so long ago-"

"You won't live if he gets his hands on you," Kenny looked down at his feet. He didn't want to hurt him. "You're _weak_ , Kyle."

Kyle's mouth popped open, "I never thought you'd talk to me like that."

"Truth hurts," Kenny bit his lip.

"Yeah?" Kyle's voice suddenly turned sharp. Animal. "What other _truths_ are you keeping from me? Huh?"

He pushed Kenny back, his face turning red, "What else do you want to tell me, Kenny? Please. Dish. What? Next you want to tell me that you hated Stan? Or maybe you never really loved me?"

"Don't you dare," Kenny clasped Kyle's hands, holding them steady. "Don't you fucking dare suggest that. Stan is my best fucking friend. And I've been in love with you my whole fucking life. So don't you even fucking dare."

"Bullshit."

"It's not." He held Kyle's hands tighter. He was trying to break away, "Listen. These past few days with you have been worth every bullet wound, every collapsed lung, every spontaneous combustion, every decapitation, every drowning, every stab. I would do it all again if it meant I got to replay all these moments with you."

"You don't mean that…"

"I do. I love you. I love you so, so much. I always will," he grabbed Kyle's shoulders, "And that's why I need you to leave. You have no idea how much it would kill me if something happened to you."

For a moment, they stared at each other in silence, hanging on to the words still in the air.

Kyle wiped tears off his face, "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry. You just need to go."

…

"You've cursed all of us. You even fucked yourself, I bet."

Kenny stared at Cartman through the glass. All around were families visiting their misshapen children, pitying them as if some fucked-up stranger snuck in and raised them instead of themselves.

Cartman said nothing at first, pursing his lips and leering at Kenny with dark, void eyes. His face was sallow and gray, his cheekbones so sharply protruding under the skin that Kenny though they might pierce the skin, stick out like the arms of a cross.

"How sick have you been, Cartman?" Kenny pressed.

"How sick have _you_ been?"

"I haven't been sick."

"Yes, you have. It's different for you, but I can still feel it. That's how they tell me."

"Who tells you? How?"

Cartman jabbed a finger into his scalp, "Them."

"In your head? You hear them in your head?"

He nodded.

"Who are they, Cartman?"

"The people from before. They watch everything. They've watched you. And they don't like you."

"What people from before? Why are they watching?"

Again, Cartman didn't answer. His eye twitched. His fists sat shakily on the table.

(are they talking to him right now)

Kenny remembered the grisly story Ike told him at the courthouse.

"Is it the… um, settlers? Did you have them curse us?"

Cartman twitched once more. "We've _always_ been cursed."

"I don't have time for this," Kenny stood up and hit the glass, startling Cartman, "Where's Stan?!"

"Hey! Hit the glass again and you're out!" a guard yelled from down the corridor, not even looking up from his desk.

Cartman smiled and shrugged, "Around."

"What the fuck did you do to him?"

"I put him away for awhile."

"That body… where did that body come from?"

"I don't know if you know this, but… people _love_ me. They write me letters all the time. It wasn't hard to ask a friend for a favor. There's people all around here that'll do what I say. Especially a sicko mortician."

"What's their name?"

"Doesn't matter. They're dead now."

(the fucking funeral home people)

"I'm going to find out where Stan _really_ is," Kenny turned to leave.

"How long have you known?" Cartman's fingers were now laced together. He looked up at Kenny, contented.

"I don't know what you mean…"

"Oh, come on. Parts of you knew that he was still here. You felt it just like how I feel… them. Their presence."

"I've been trying to find out the truth. But you… You killed Heidi and Butters… You almost made Kyle a demonic vessel… Everyone is sick."

"And you? You get to live forever. And you get Kyle. Even though you fucking knew about Stan. I'm pretty sure you took advantage of Kyle. You're selfish."

"I… I'm not…"

"You are."

"I had good intentions…"

Cartman sniffed, wiped a dribble of blood from his mouth.

"Oh, Kenny," he sang, "Kenny, Kenny, Kenny. You and I both know that good intentions have no earthly use. You can stand there and keep saying that you tried and tried, but did you really? Nah, I think you lied back and let yourself get fucked."

"I've done more than you think I have, you fucking asshole."

"Whatever it is, it won't be enough. More people are going to die," something changed in his eyes. One flicker of remorse. "Including me, if you won't give me what I want."

Kenny scoffed, "You don't want what I have. You're too egotistical to be able to handle having your head cut off and all your friends forgetting about it the next day."

"And who was the one person who _did_ remember?"

"... You."

"Right. I don't have no one that I care about to watch die. I only want to make up for lost time. I'm on your side, Kenny. I always have been."

"No. The only side your own is your own. Besides, even if I did do my "witchy shit", as you've called it, to you - I would immediately die. Did you know that? Or do you not care? We're not close, Eric. I won't die so you can keep doing horrible shit forever."

"Oh, but I'm sure you would for Kyle."

"Yeah, because Kyle's not fucking evil."

"I'm in here because of him!"

"You're in here because of you!"

A fire alarm suddenly cut through the building. From the corner, Kenny could see smoke trailing from the hallway.

"Finally!" Cartman yelled and stood up, bashing out the glass with an elbow. Kenny looked around for help, but all the guards were busy with the fire. He could inmates - children - screaming.

Cartman managed to jump through the glass and pin Kenny to the wall with his hands.

One evening when Kenny was working late, the car he was under slipped off the jack and fell on him. The pressure of Cartman's hands around his throat was heavier than that.

He dug his fingernails so forcefully that the skin ruptured. Kenny's blood ran down his hands. Cartman pushed deeper and deeper. The suffocation was settling in, Kenny knew. He felt it before. Slowly blacking out, then feeling the awful, excruciating sensation of his spinal cord being ripped through his throat by his once friend.

The last thing he hears is, "I will have my way."

…

Kyle drives down Oakview Lane, still sniffling. The radio softly plays "Don't Fear the Reaper." He feels as if he's been hearing this song more often lately. He reaches for a water bottle and then it hits him. A rip in his chest, sinking in his stomach.

Something happened. Something happened and he doesn't know what it is, but he knows it's bad.

He pulls over and puts his hazards on.

 **12:34 pm - Kyle: Kenny. I hope you're okay. Let me know when you get back, please. I love you.**

He waited for a moment. He knew Kenny wouldn't be able to respond right away, but a part of him hoped.

Flipping off the hazard lights, it abruptly ripped through him. A voice in his head that wasn't his own, screaming, I WILL HAVE MY WAY.

(I WILL HAVE MY WAY)

(I WILL HAVE MY WAY)


	26. Stan

I remember my bare feet on the brick pavement, my toes curled and pressed into the grout as if that would keep me balanced, keep me awake. You were behind me and you asked me something important but I don't remember what it was, though I remember my answer was 'nothing' without a second of reflection. It seemed so clear then.

I turned to look at you and you were blurry from the sweat in my eyes. I was sick. I was very sick with whatever flu had spread that season, and it showed me that summer doesn't make us invincible or immortal, it showed me that that time of the year is lonely and all there's left to do it fight to get passion going again.

You asked me something important and I don't remember.

Even now when I think of you, you are blurry. And my feet are very bare, covered in dirt and bug bites and the sweat in my eyes is a different kind of sweat mixed with tears.

My body is still on fire and I'm trapped inside of it.


	27. Fuck Armageddon This is Hell

**A/N: Hey, I just wanted to say thank you so much for everyone's kind words in regard to my last note. It keeps me going and reminds that even if I feel alone, I'm not really alone. Thank you 3**

In the living room of the McCormick house, Karen is swaddled up in a blanket on the torn-up couch. The VHS tape she put in has seen better years, and every time Snow White bites into the poisoned apple, the picture becomes snowy and cuts out. She knows that Snow White is later resurrected by a handsome kiss with true love's kiss but she's never seen it. As far as she can tell, Snow White bites into a stranger's apple and learns a valuable, posthumous lesson.

Karen wraps the blanket tighter around her as the old witch appears in the window, chuckles, and says "All alone, my pet?"

Kenny has always told her, " _Never_ tell anyone if you're home alone. This is why Snow White is my least favorite princess."

One time Karen countered with, "But she was being nice. That's just who Snow White is."

"Yeah, so was Cinderella. But she stopped taking the bullshit, eventually."

The phone rings. Karen wipes her nose and stumbles to the kitchen landline.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is Kenny there?" the voice sounds surly. Demanding.

"This isn't… This isn't Kyle is it?"

"It's not fucking Kyle. Is there anyone else there?"

On the screen, Snow White's frail arm falls and the apple rolls out. The tape goes ashy and stops.

"My dad is in the shower," she says, though it's a lie. No one, including Kenny, has been home for over a day. She hangs up on the stranger and returns to the couch to sleep. She hopes that by the time she wakes up, Kenny will be home.

He has always reminded her of the Axe body spray commercial where the man turns into actual chocolate and every woman - on the streets, in the park, the theatre - takes a bite of him. She watched Kenny over the years, who had the most amount of girlfriends and the most amount of loneliness.

Her father seemed to do the same thing with alcohol. Just keep filling up and up to get rid of the emptiness. Distraction, she learned very quickly in life, was the key to pretend happiness. Their pastor did always teach them that an idle mind was the Devil's workshop. Sometimes she wondered if the Devil created distractions, too, to prevent people from finding real things about themselves.

Karen spent most of her free time reading and drawing. If she was going to be addicted to something like her father and brother, she at least wanted it to be useful.

Her room was taped from floor to ceiling with drawings, maps, poems, greeting cards, photos… Anything to make it look like she was any other incoming high school freshmen with a normal life and a quirky sense of interior design.

On her dresser sits a shoebox diorama of her last book report, _Anne of Green Gables._ She drew the Cuthbert home and used crumpled construction paper as foliage. Her teacher chided her for using a children's novel until Kenny came to the school, pick-up truck squealing, oil spatters all over his work uniform, to "have a talk" with him.

She kept on with the project. She loved how Anne could be so sensitive, yet so imaginative and blunt about what she wanted in life.

She worked on the diorama all night at the front desk of McCormick Auto. At some point, he left a Coke and a Snickers bar next to her but she was so engrossed in the project that she didn't notice until later.

…

When Kenny wakes up, there is a white sheet over his body. He can hear the footsteps of investigators and journalists walking around him and the other corpses. He's still sitting up against the wall where Cartman left him. Carefully, he pulls the sheet down. The sky is violet blue and all around him is ash. Debris is littered around him and the walls he once thought sturdy have mostly come down. In the distance, he can make out firefighters, police cars, and detectives. They're searching in Stan's car, scanning everything for clues.

They haven't noticed Kenny moving. He is covered in soot. Most of his clothes have burned off. He can still feel pulling and tearing from his throat, the stinging of his own flesh as if he were still burning.

The people are stepping over burned corpses with flashlights, talking to each other, speaking as if the scenery didn't disturb them to the bone.

Then he hears, _I think an inmate started it, sir,_ and it all comes back to him: Cartman's face, his fingers digging into his throat, Kyle's face, Kyle's fingers digging into his chest as he pushed him.

(i will have my way)

Slowly, quietly, he removes the rest of the sheet, flattens himself on his belly, and crawls out. He digs his elbow into the grass, keeping an eye on the officers the whole time. If he has to crawl all the way back to South Park, he will.

…

How it always happens: she's at a family reunion or a birthday party, or her parents introduce her to a co-worker and the inevitable question pops up:

"What do you want to do when you graduate, Nichole?"

And the answer is always:

"I'm not sure yet." Accompanied with a shrug.

"What about college?"

"I'm taking a gap year. I just want to work."

She often pictured her parents' disappointed faces when she changed the trash bags at 2 am in front of the 7-11.

The owner, Earl, was at least 70, wore his uniform shirt open enough to show off his chest hair, and coiffed his gray head like Elvis. He hired Nichole instantly at the start of summer because she reminded him of his first (and deceased) wife.

Whenever she went to wipe down the Slurpee machine counter, Earl talked her ears off about his Martha was also a hard worker, smart, considerate. How once he knocked a guy out for throwing a beer at her because he accidentally brought her a segregated bar.

She took all of this in, until one night she finally asked, "Haven't you written all this down? It's pretty interesting stuff."

Earl frowned and said, "I'd rather leave it. I don't talk to anyone else about it."

"Oh-kay, Earl." She folded the damp cloth and headed back to the counter when a wide, sullen-looking boy came in. The clothes he was wearing, red flannel and jeans looked small and were dirtied as if he'd just stolen them off of a corpse. He hung in the door for a moment. Nichole glanced at the digital clock behind the register. It was only 9:53 pm. The drunks and crazies usually made their rounds between 1 am to 4 am.

"Do you guys have coffee here?"

Earl walked with Nichole behind the counter. "Self-serve is by the ice cream box," he said.

Nichole's finger hovered over the panic button. Something sounded familiar about his voice.

He sauntered to the coffee station and started drinking blueberry blend straight from the pot, steaming amber snakes running down his cheeks and neck.

"Sir, sir, that is _hot_ coffee," Earl warned.

The boy flipped them off, smashed the glass on the Slurpee-stained floor and started another.

"You can't just break our shit, asshole!" Nichole yelled. She pressed the button. Hopefully, someone would come in time.

The boy dropped the other pot, sending shards everywhere.

"I hope you know you'll be paying a fine for that," Earl stepped in front of Nichole.

Something like this would happen eventually, Token warned her when she took the job. A stranger with no other agenda than to fuck things up and she would be in the way of it. He wanted her to quit. She reminded him time and time again that this could happen with any job she might have.

"I won't be paying for anything."

"Dick," Nichole muttered.

"You want to say that a little louder?" he started approaching them, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"Don't get any closer, punk!" Earl threatened. He continued to push Nichole away but she stood her ground.

She wanted to text Token "HELP" but there wasn't time. She reached over and simply called him, letting it ring so when he picked it up, he could hear the confrontation.

"What? I'm sure you've been called a dick before." She glanced down and saw that Token had already picked up, one of his selfies filling up the screen.

"I'm telling you to say it _louder_." He grabbed her wrist, feeling the tiny bones grinding together.

"Take your hand off of her, _now_." Earl reached for something behind the hotdog machine like he might bluff with a weapon.

The boy cocked his head, and Earl flew to the side, crashing into the sandwich case, his neck breaking in several places that Nichole never thought possible.

"Oh, god… please let go," she whispered.

"What's that?!" he pressed his ear forward. "If you're going to beg for your life, you need to be louder about it, Nichole!"

Nichole shuddered. He said her name. She knew he sounded familiar.

She looked into his small, yellow, bloodshot eyes. "Cartman-"

Trill sirens echoed down the street, and suddenly the parking lot filled with red and blue flashing lights.

"Fuck!" Cartman looked at Nichole, and her body was pushed back into the cigarette display before falling into a sobbing heap, boxes of menthol showering her.

When she woke up, he was gone, replaced by two officers and Token dabbing a cool cloth on her face.

…

Kenny walked in the front door to see Karen wrapped on the couch, sleeping away.

Right away, he dials Kyle on the landline.

"Hello?"

"Kyle! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine… are you calling me from your house?"

"I lost my phone in a fire."

"Wait what-"

"Lock all your doors and windows. Don't leave your house. Fuck, don't even leave your room."

"Why?!"

"He's out, Kyle. We're fucked."

"I…"

"Just wait for me. Give me 20 minutes."

He went to the bathroom and takes a hot shower to wash off the soot, though the water feels scalding on his delicate, new skin.

There's still streaks of dirt around his eyes when he gets out, but it's better than nothing.

He pulled fresh clothes from the closet, then turned to leave.

Karen stood in the doorway, still wrapped up.

"You okay, Karen?"

Karen shook her head, "I feel sick."

"What, like a fever?" He reached down and put a hand to her forehead. It was ice cold.

"God, you're freezing. Come on, I'm giving you my hoodie."

"I don't think it'll help."

"Why?"

Karen thought back to earlier - before the phone call, before the movie was over, she was hugging the toilet, vomiting the stuff of nightmares. Mostly blood and black grime. Her throat burns and she wants to scratch it out.

She doubled over, gagging, finally puking on top of her feet. Worms fell to the carpet.


	28. Monster

**A/N: Hi everyone,**

 **I just want to reiterate how much I love you. I've been putting everything I have into this and it's fucking amazing how y'all respond.**

 **From day one, I've been printing the comments and taping them to the wall above my desk because it keeps me going.**

 **Thank you 3**

 **Love,**

 **Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay**

Cartman walked along the empty roads of South Park, kicking up gravel, absorbing the humid July night. He gazed up at the sky. He'd forgotten stars. Forgotten how they looked. They were distant white circles - he could picture them - but hadn't seen them set against the black blanket of sky in eight years.

When he ripped the flannel from the cold arms of Craig Tucker, the boy's face was tilted up, as if trying to breathe in the stars one last time. But his pupils leaked. His teeth were dust.

No one else seemed to notice him. People drinking PBR in lawn chairs while moths flew around their porch lights stayed engrossed in conversation. A sickly looking teenager wasn't strange to witness here. Cartman wondered what he'd be like if he wasn't put away. _The same as the rest of them…_ Sitting on fences and popping pills, drinking absinthe in an Arby's parking lot. He overheard someone talking about "the neighbor kid who ran over his dad with a tractor."

 _I'm not any better._

He stopped and stared at the stars again.

…

Kyle brought the rope over his shoulders and wrapped it loosely around his torso. It itched and poked through his shirt but he ignored it.

"Holy shit, what are you doing?" Ike stood in the doorway, holding a root beer.

"You know what I'm doing." He turned to look in the full-length mirror. A Polaroid of Stan at the state fair petting zoo was wedged into the gold frame. There was still a small crack at the top from when Kyle threw his Xbox controller.

Ike set the can on Kyle's dresser and circled around him like an inquisitive shark. "If you go into that sinkhole, who will pull you back up?"

"I was thinking Kenny."

"There's no way Kenny will let you do this."

"Well, it doesn't matter what Kenny will let me do or not do. He should have been here by now." Kyle slid the rope off his body, "If he's not here soon, I'm leaving."

"I thought he told you to stay here and wait for him."

Kyle glanced at his brother in the mirror, then to Stan's cupped palms, feeding a llama.

"I have to do this," he said.

Kyle sat on the foot of his bed and began coiling the rope.

"I could do it," Ike said, grabbing the end and mocking a pulling motion. "I could bring you back up."

"Absolutely not," Kyle said in a calm, yet authoritative tone that reminded Ike of their mother. He sat cross-legged in gray socks and jeans and a Butcher Babies tee-shirt, eyes never leaving the rope that looked like a snake twisted around his arms. His face was thinner. The violet was already fading from his hair. "You're staying here. I need to know that you're safe."

"I want to go with you, Kyle. I need to know you're safe, too."

Kyle stopped. He chewed his lip. "You're not old enough to understand…"

"I understand enough. Probably more than you."

"Ike. You do not understand how much it would kill me if something happened to you. That day you almost fell in… I don't think I've ever been so scared. I know that you know something fucked up is happening here, but things are about to get a lot worse."

Ike shifted his weight foot-to-foot. He looked down at Kyle's signature (Kyle Marsh, AKA "the brother") on his cast in blue ink. "Can you at least wait a little bit longer? Please?"

"I can…"

Ike stared at the floor, eyes traveling around the rope before looping back up to his brother. It stunk of gasoline. "Do you really think Stan is still alive?"

Kyle shook his head. "I don't know."

"What if you get down there and find him, but…"

"I don't want to think about after. I just need to see what happened to him."

…

During the spring, they had a small troop of art students come and teach them how to paint. The students were all alternative meat bags, plump with studio art dreams. Half of them quavered around the inmates and the other half acted like they were all best friends, high-fiving the delinquents with the energy of a camp counselor or step-parent desperate for approval. They were chaperoned by Miss Kathy. She would walk around in a sundress and jean vest, auburn hair piled on her head and frayed like a stray cat had kneaded its paws into it.

Cartman had seen plenty of paintings. He saw them in the library books. Captions described how colors changed with different points of light. They described the texture, begging him to reach into the glossy page and touch for himself.

Lazily slapping paint onto the stretched ivory canvas, he didn't care what burgundies mixed with violets or blues or grays. Color stopped mattering to him. He hoped she would pass by him and exclaim, "I love the abstract!" and keep moving.

But she didn't.

She pointed at the dripping swath of navy blue and said, "This is lazy. There's no mission behind it. This looks like the TJ Maxx art in my grandma's sewing room."

Cartman dropped the paintbrush into the water cup. "This has no purpose for me."

"Then find a purpose. Don't be a scrub," she countered, then kept walking, silver bangles jingling off her olive wrist.

He clutched the wooden handle of the brush and stabbed the canvas where blue met violet, creating a sonorous _pop_. The other inmates and students looked up.

Miss Kathy only nodded and said, "Rad."

He did it again.

It was new for Cartman, to have someone pay attention to him, even if it was pretending. _She probably just feels sorry for me._

He thought about her a lot. But he knew she went home every day to a boyfriend and a cat, never giving him a second thought.

For the last day of workshops, she gave them each, and an itemized, individualized list of things to work on until the next round of sessions. They were mostly things like "tighter brush strokes," "study composition," "cats can be blue," "practice perspective."

For Cartman, it was much different:

 _Get through the day_

 _Eat right, or stop doing something_

 _Light a fire_

 _Stay awake_

 _Wake up_

 _Remember something_

 _Forget about something_

 _Get what they need_

She didn't explain what any of it means or how he was supposed to do it. She only said it was advice given to her long ago, and she thought he could use it.

(get through the day)

How many days he took it one day at a time so they connected at the hands like a chain of paper people. He wasn't unfamiliar with paper friends.

(eat right or stop doing something)

He _really_ didn't know what she meant by this. He could only eat what was slapped onto a plastic tray. The only thing he could stop was trying to understand what people mean when they tell him things.

(light a fire)

Orange was the color of the night, skin sizzling and screaming was the chorus that carried the song of disintegration. The last thing he saw was Kenny slumped to the floor in a bloody, mutilated heap before breaking through the wall and out into the woods.

(stay awake)

"Do I know you?" Craig had asked after Cartman greeted him.

Cartman undercut and punched him in the jaw, sending Craig to the ground. A pill bottle rolled into the ditch. The force of his head hitting the road made Craig bite off the top of his tongue. He spat it out.

"Ouch, Craig, ouch." Cartman bent down and snatched him by the shirt. Craig looked up at him with wide, confused eyes. Then the recognition set in.

"Cartman, you-"

Cartman punched him again, his nose crushing under the fist. Then his jaw broke, unhinged like a busted door. He choked on his own blood.

(wake up)

His mouth tasted of acid and blueberries.

(remember remember

remember something)

Mom wasn't home. He broke into his old room, expecting to see his bed made, the nightstand with a radio alarm clock, the Terence and Phillip poster puttied to the purple wall - but it was packed up as if a child never lived there at all. His headboard was coated in dust.

(forget forget

forget something)

She had made an effort to forget him.

Even in the closet, she had folded all his clothes into plastic tubs. Toys were in a box labeled "toys" and not "Eric's toys."

He couldn't look around anymore. The room didn't want him. He didn't want to want it.

He turned to leave when he kicked something across the floor.

 _The Outsiders_ , its yellowed pages beckoned him. By the glow of the moonlight, he flipped through pages of blue, dripping ink:

"GET WHAT THEY NEED GET WHAT THEY NEED GET WHAT THEY NEED YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS ERIC YOU KNOW THEY NEED TO DIE GET WHAT THEY NEED I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT ERIC."

He dropped the book and ran down to the kitchen. All the pictures of him that used to hang in the halls were gone.

Before he left, he glanced into the backyard. The shed had been demolished.

(GET WHAT THEY NEED)

He looked for something sharp.

…

Ike Broflovski, 13 years old, loved by everyone he met, decisive and intelligent, spread out over his brother's comforter like a sea star while Kyle watched out the window for Kenny.

He thought about Karen and placed his hand on the center of his belly. It hurt. His hand became frigid. He looked at his brother's shoulders and remembered being carried away from the theater.

Kyle watched the street, thinking of all the times he watched Stan's bedroom light turn off, and he'd pop out the front door and into the street. He'd wave. He waved because he knew Kyle was watching. He could smell oranges, the more he remembered. Every week Stan took an orange out of a brown paper bag and peeled it in class and Kyle wished he could shrink and abscond into that bag now, never to be seen again.

"You're grinding your teeth," Ike said.

"I'm just thinking."

"I can tell," Ike rolled off the bed. "I'll be right back."

"'Kay."

Ike walked out into the dark hallway. Gerald left for the bar awhile ago. Sheila was in bed, asleep. As he walked downstairs, he wiped tears with his good arm. He hated that he cried so much when he was tired. There hadn't been a text from Karen in several hours.

In the kitchen, Ike stood and listened to the dishwasher hum while he drank ice water. He turned on the back porch light and watched, through the sliding glass door, a stray cat rub itself up against the swing set.

Ike opened the door with his elbow and walked up to it.

"Kitty, kitty."

Startled, the cat jumped and sprinted to the side of the house. Ike sighed. He wanted a cat.

Behind him, he heard pattering. Maybe the cat crept into the house. Gerald would kick his ass if it did.

Ike slid the door closed behind him.

"Kitty?" Ike placed the glass in the sink and looked into the corners of the living room. He walked upstairs, scared that he would find Kyle holding up a feral cat away from his scrunched up face and yell, "Ike! Why the fuck did you let it inside?!"

A _thump_ hit his mother's door as he passed it. He stopped.

Ike stepped back and lightly tapped the door.

"Mom, you okay?"

No answer.

He knocked harder. "Mom?"

Warmth spread under his toes. It made a squishing sound when he moved his feet. He reached back and turned on the hall light.

Chest rattling with battered breath, nose in-taking metallic air, he stared as blood flowed from underneath the door.

…

Finally, Kenny came running down the street, Karen wrapped around his back. Kyle studied his face against the wind, how his hair wrapped around it as he scaled the house and into the window that Kyle opened for him. Karen dropped to the floor. She was shaking.

"Oh shit, Karen, are you okay?" Kyle asked, watching her lean up against the dresser.

Karen nodded. "I will be."

"She has the same thing you had, but it's not…" Kenny took Kyle's shoulder and led him away, whispering. "It's not getting better. It's getting worse every hour. We have to-"

Karen coughed up blood. She let it dribble to her chin, too weak to wipe it away.

Kyle plucked up a tissue, got on one knee and wiped it for her.

"He has to die. It's the only way we can fix this," Kenny said. "He has to die. Tonight."

Kyle looked up. He took Kenny's hand. "We'll go back to the center. I just don't know how we'll break in."

Kenny sucked in his breath, eyes shining with a dismal knowing.

"What's wrong?"

Ike's cries crashed into the room. Kyle and Kenny rushed toward the door and out to where Ike was squatting in blood, arms over himself, crying. Transfixed on the blood,

(mothers blood)

Kyle froze.

Kenny turned the knob and peeked in. All he could see was Sheila's pale, freckled hand laid out on the floor, blood slithering underneath her wedding band.

Then movement. A shadow bumped into this line of vision.

Like a still-life portrait that was slowly coming into motion, fingers clawing through flaked paint, teeth jutting through plaster, Cartman swung around the door with a kitchen knife.

Kyle kicked Ike to the opposite end of the hall, but he could tell in an instant that Cartman's vision had tunneled to fit Kyle. Only Kyle. Kenny tried to grasp Kyle's shoulders to pull him out of the way, but Cartman was too fast.

What felt like a punch to the stomach overtook Kyle, until he saw the knife exit his body and sweep down to strike again. As soon as he realized he was being stabbed, a coldness racketed through his body. He couldn't breathe. He fell downstairs. He hit his head on the banister. His tailbone whacked the bottom step. He couldn't make out what Kenny was yelling.

(o well i guess this is how i go)

The front door opened. In Kyle's wavering vision, Gerald walked in and jolted when he saw Kyle on the floor, bleeding out. Cartman screamed something.

Dazed, Kyle propped himself on his elbows. He could vaguely hear his father muttering _holy shit, holy shit, holy shit_ , as he dialed 911. Kenny was thrown down, landing at Kyle's feet, groaning. His eye was busted.

"Fucking finally," Cartman stepped down, holding the knife by his face. "This is it. You're fucking done."

Gerald recognized him - a familiar child's face decorated with the trauma of being a man, this person who now cornered his son just as he did several weeks ago.

Kyle stood against the wall, trembling. "F-Fuck you, Cartman! You're a coward!"

"I'm a coward? I'm not the one who has my back up against the wall." Cartman raised the knife again.

"Kyle!" Gerald jumped in between them. The blade drove deep in between his eyes.

"The fuck!" Cartman yelled. Kenny reared up and punched Cartman in the back of the neck. He fell and twitched violently on the carpet before going still.

Kyle sobbed, holding his maimed abdomen. He slid to the floor.

"Babe, babe, you're okay," Kenny crawled over. "You'll be okay."

"I'm going to die."

"No, you're not." He lifted Kyle's shirt. "He didn't get all the way through you." Kenny took off his jacket and wrapped the sleeves tightly around the wound. He wanted to freak out, seeing Kyle's blood on his hands. He knew if _he_ freaked out, Kyle would freak out.

"Are you okay?" Kyle whispered.

"Ha, I'm _fine_." Kenny tried not to cry. "How do _you_ feel? Do you feel hot? Sick?"

Kyle gazed over at his father's body. "...empty."

Kenny blinked hard.

"Okay, okay, come on." He lifted Kyle over Gerald. "We have to… we have to get the kids and you out of here."

"I wanted to stay with you," Kyle mumbled.

"You can't. Cartman might wake up soon."

They heard creaking upstairs, sounds of Ike and Karen jumping. They were crawling out the window.

"You should go with them," Kenny said. "The cops will be here any second."

"Please don't leave me."

"Kyle… you can do this. All you have to do is wait outside." He walked him to the door. "Just wait outside. I'll be there soon." He glared back at the unconscious Cartman. "You know what I have to do."

…

Sweat dripped down Kyle's back. Mosquitos bit his arms and legs. His ankles twisted, tripping downhill, feet bringing up clumps of mud. Arms around a wide tree trunk, he stopped and listened, but only heard crickets and his own breathing. His socks were wet.

Kenny told him to wait outside but something drew Kyle out. It was invisible and magnetic, the way the woods pulled him.

He hadn't found Karen and Ike yet.

Kyle kept pushing forward until he saw a familiar sign:

 **THINGS TO KNOW BEFORE HIKING THE RIVER TRAIL**

 **Rugged terrain - high degree of difficulty**

 **4 miles in length - average time: 2 ½ hours**

 **No cell phone service - tell someone where you're going**

 **Numerous low areas - you will get muddy**

 **Carry your own drinking water**

 **Poison ivy grows along the trail**

 **BE SAFE - HAVE FUN**

He couldn't count how many times his parents told him "Be safe, have fun."

He winced.

(my parents)

He limped onto the trail.

In the distance, there was fire.

A small one - only a few people stood around it - motionless and staring.

He came closer, "Hey, can you help me?"

His stomach hurt like hell. Every step ripping him open again.

(why didnt i just fucking wait for an ambulance fuck fuck)

They didn't respond at first. Only one looked up. It was Craig Tucker. His jaw hung loose. It clacked as if he wanted to speak but only a low hum of "Ooooo" came out.

Kyle clung to a birch tree. An old man with his head angled from his neck looked at him next. Butters turned his shoulder, his face all bloodied lines like rivers on a map.

Heidi spoke, though her eye melted against her cheek: "Are you here to see him?"

Kyle's hands fall from the bark. He stepped forward.

"Stan's here? Where?"

With decrepit fingers, they pointed down to the fire.

"Step in," she said.

Hands curled around his arms.

His father's voice: "It's okay, Kyle. It's safe."

His mother's voice: "This way, you can be with us again. We love you so much."

(no)

They nudged him toward the glow-

(no no)

-almost falling in face first-

(NO NO)

Kyle twisted away, smacking into a tree. Embers followed. The forest was spinning. Hazily he saw the standing corpses like blurred silhouettes before falling down, biting dirt and pricked by sticks, tearing police tape and landing in the same pit Ike had fallen in. Whispering swelled around him. He was cemented down, being sucked in.

Kyle closed his eyes.

 _He was dreaming about walking in the dark again. In these dreams, he can't see anything but he can feel the black surrounding close in on him. His heartbeat thickly pounds in his chest until it bursts and coats the inside of his ribcage with clotted blood._

 _He chokes._

 _Tries to reach inside himself._

 _The stomach turns._

(its happening for real now)

Darkness closed in her wings and his breath was running out. He tried pushing himself further down, hoping to hit something but continually pushed earth between his fingers. He could only hold his breath for so long before an actual death dream would come and Stan wouldn't be there to wake him up.

His sock finally hit air. Cold dampness kissed his ankle. He wiggled it around, hoping to wedge himself free and drop so he could breathe again, depending on how far the drop was. He would either be able to breathe again or just break his neck.

Something pulled on his foot. Kyle panicked.

(o fuck o fuck fuck)

Whoever it was dragged him all the way out, and he fell the short distance in the dark, landing on packed dirt. He breathed deeply through his mouth. The air tasted sickly but it was better than no air. Kenny's jacket was still wrapped tightly around him. He rolled over on his side to see nothing. Raven black.

Something shifted by him.

"H-Hello?" Kyle choked out.

The person crawled to him, touched his arm with long fingernails.

A soft squeak: "Kyle?"

"...Stan?"


	29. A Dark Tunnel

**April 30, 2017**

 **2:11 am**

Passing through the earth was the scariest thing Stan ever been through. He became rigid on the way down. Dirt filled his ears and nose. Roots tore at his clothes as if Death themself was undressing him: _You don't need a jacket in Hell_ , Stan thinks now that it's over and he has time to humor himself. _It's toasty all the time. And the lakes? Naturally heated by fire. You'll never have to worry about your eyes turning to stone or your lips turning blue here, my boy._

When Stan finally did hit bottom, it became clear it was a personal Hell. After spending ten minutes coughing, sucking in acidic air, and beating dirt out of his hair, he saw how dark it truly was. He'd spent so many years in darkness, debilitated by his own twisted thoughts, and now here it was before him: a black canvas with which he could feel them - invisible creatures that hid from him, terrorized him, understood him.

"Hello?" he called out.

A small echo greeted _Hello?_ back to him. Over the next few weeks, Stan would become used to that echo as if it were another person to talk to. He learned not to mind his own voice so much.

He felt around his pants. Miraculously, his phone remained in his pocket.

 **Battery: 77%**

 **No Service**

He turned on the flashlight. If the echo didn't already confirm it, he could see he was in a kind of cave.

A wild rabbit, it's eyes sudden yellow from the light, trembled when it saw Stan.

"Hey, little guy," Stan whispered, stepping softly toward it, "Did you fall down here, too?"

The rabbit leaped from him into deeper darkness. Parts of him wished it was a white rabbit. He'd follow it and eat cake and drink tea and play croquet with the Queen of Hearts and when he woke up, Kyle would be hovering over him with a frown: _Why would you fall asleep when I'm in the middle of talking to you?_

This rabbit had to be magic too though, he decided. It managed to get here when it could have easily suffocated on the way down.

He followed it.

…

The terrain was mostly flat, with some winding tunnels that he was too scared to explore. The rabbit was gone. Every time it saw Stan, it jumped around a corner. Now it wouldn't be seen at all.

 **Battery: 70%**

One path looked like it headed up at an angle. The soil at the bottom was tender and went up to his ankles. He climbed with one hand.

(holy shit i might get out of here holy shit)

It wasn't as long as he imagined. When he reached the end, he was met with cold and packed dirt, still frozen from the long, Colorado winter they just had. It almost turned his hand to ice when he touched it.

"Fuck!"

He raised his phone up.

 **No Service**

He could still call 911. At least he would be easier to dig up now when they found him.

He punched the numbers in and pressed the phone to his ear. Before it could ring, he felt the phone heat up instantly. There was screaming coming from the speaker. When he looked at the screen, a face

(my face

?)

smiled at him.

Something was wrong with it: his eyes were blacked out. Everything around him was striking, black void.

There was screaming again, and the glass cracked across the screen.

He fell to the side, rolling down the tunnel. He thought he heard laughing as he landed on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The flashlight beamed up like an alien cone of light. The rabbit's face appeared, nose twitching.

Stan was crying now. He wished more than ever that someone would flip up a light switch and yell _Surprise!_ And he wouldn't have to sit alone in the dark with that nightmare of an image brandished into his brain over and over again.

With a shaking hand, he reached out. The rabbit darted off. He wrapped his fingers around the edges, it was normal temperature now and tilted the screen up hesitantly. The image was gone, replaced by a picture of Kyle that Stan didn't remember taking. Kyle wasn't looking at him. He was sitting on his bed, hands folded in his lap, looking as if he'd been crying. The screen crack spidered across the top of his head.

 **Battery: 40%**

 **No Service**

He could try. It might be stupid. But he could try.

He turned the flashlight off and opened up Messages, and went to the one from Kyle he hadn't opened yet:

 **6:20 pm - Kyle: Hey Stan… I am so sorry about today. I know that you put your heart on the line today. I was wrong to react the way that I did. I've never second-guessed wanting to be with you forever. I'm just scared. You know that I let my anxiety get the best of me sometimes…**

 **Please call me soon. I want to work this out. I love you. So much.**

 **May 1, 2017**

 **2:31 am - Stan: KY?LE HELP**

 _ **Message failed to send. Try again?**_

He tried calling. Not even a ring.

 _ **Call failed. Try again?**_

 **2:34 am - Stan: kyle hope you get this message and i am not joking PLEASE I AM STUCK DOWN BELOW SOMEWHERE AND I CANT GET OUT**

 **Its like some sort of weird underground thing and theres different paths but im lost now and i tried to call 911 but something is wrong something is so off about this and im so scared im going to die please please i hope somehow this gets to you**

 _ **Message failed to send. Try again?**_

"Fuck!" Stan screamed again.

 _ **Call failed. Try again?**_

…

 **Battery: 29%**

 **No Service**

He could feel himself already going insane. He walked around in the dark, hoping to run into something useful. To save power he abandoned the flashlight, feeling the walls for guidance.

He murmured as many state capitals as he could remember to combat the anxiety: "Denver, Colorado. Lansing, Michigan. Little Rock, Arkansas…"

When the cities were repeated enough, he moved on to poetry.

"If I could write the beauty of your eyes, and fresh numbers number all your graces…"

Small patters skipped in front of him. Maybe the rabbit was back? He knew he was entering some kind of alcove, by the feeling of it.

He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight once again. Before him was a small coffee table with a purple cloth. Skulls and candles lined the front of it. Broken glass scattered over leather-bound books and photos of naked women. Stan rolled his eyes.

"Of course," Stan, said to the rabbit, sitting in the corner, "what kind of shrine would it be if it didn't have titties?"

When he saw matches, he immediately drew one and lit the candles. He shut his phone off. He studied a photo in the center for some time: a young man with dark eyes, a long beard and a triangular face. He looked almost like a goat - all he needed were horns. Goat Man looked through Stan as if he knew all of his secrets. _To hell with your therapist - I'm seeing you now._

He went to his knees and hovered the candle over tiny glass bottles of amber liquid (Drink Me!). He pulled the cork out and sniffed. Whiskey. It went into his pocket.

Most of the pages in the books were yellowed, journal pages in a language he'd never seen before. He looked to Goat Man: "Are these yours? You look like you wrote some sick shit. I wish one of these pages would tell me how to get out of here."

Stan continued rummaging around the table, hoping to find more candles, matches, or notes. There weren't as many candles as he hoped - he'd have to make them last. He lifted the cloth. There were more papers, silver crosses, photos… and oats.

"Holy shit." He took the can and found a box of rice and one protein bar behind it. He wasn't hungry now, due to shock, but at least there would be something for later. Wedging the candle into a golden holder, he let out a long, somewhat relieved exhale. Whoever was here before, whoever was running away, or hiding, or became trapped like him, was decent enough to leave this behind.

Stan laid out some oats for the rabbit and watched as it carefully chewed away.

"Would it be cliché for me to call you Peter?" Stan asked.

The rabbit leveled its gaze with black eyes.

"I think Ori is a better name for you, anyway. It means "my light" in Hebrew."

Stan rose, candle out in front, ready to find another way out.

7


	30. The Sound and the Fury

**November 6, 2015**

"Are you sure you don't want me to go in with you?" Kyle leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. He looked at Stan.

"I'm sure. Maybe in the future you could. But I think I should be alone this time."

Kyle sighed and looked down at his feet. "I don't want you to feel abandoned."

"Abandoned? How?"

"I just don't want you to feel like I'm not there for you."

"Let _me_ worry about how I feel." He tucked an auburn curl behind Kyle's ear, and added a little quietly, "I know that you love me."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Kyle smiled, cupping Stan's hand around his own ear now.

Stan smiled back, then looked down at his lap. He said, a touch louder: "I know you love me."

Kyle squeezed his hand. "I do. I hope you keep remembering that." He watched Stan continue to smile at his lap. "Hey," he pulled his sleeve so Stan would look at him, "A lot of people love you."

Stan leaned back and the chair creaked. He regarded Kyle with warm, placid eyes. He let the sentence sit in his ears. _A lot of people love you._

"But you're the one who matters the most," Stan said. "Thanks for bringing me here."

A door clicked open next to them, and a woman popped her head out. "Marsh?"

Both Stan and Kyle stood up suddenly.

"Yes, hi." Stan started walking toward her.

"Hi Stan, I'm Dr. Kathy," she extended a tan, manicured hand to him. He shook it gingerly, then turned back to look at Kyle.

"I'll be here when you get out," Kyle said, answering a question Stan didn't need to ask.

"Thank you," Stan mouthed before turning to follow Dr. Kathy behind a large wooden door and into a beige hallway.

Kyle sat back down and crossed one leg over the other, arms stretched out over the metal arms of the chair. It was a small waiting room - dimly lit and playing music that Kyle swore was played during their pre-school nap time. The front desk assistant hummed along to the soft saxophone while stapling papers.

They found this clinic in a withered plaza next to a coffee shop and a building that used to be a dance studio but was now overtaken by an Italian-American retirement club. The old men in there spent all day sitting around a plastic table, playing cards, smoking, and complaining about their wives. After Stan's first few sessions with Dr. Kathy, Kyle felt comfortable enough to leave, and he would often smoke with them until Stan was done. Their anecdotes made no sense, but Kyle found it to be good company. They often tried to give him life advice - some good, some weird, and it always ended with "don't ever get a wife."

 _I don't intend to get a wife, sir._

 _Atta boy,_ with a shoulder clap. _Also, you should quit smoking - you don't want to end up looking like us._

 _Oh horse feathers,_ Kyle would say, _You're the most beautiful men I've ever played cards with._

A big laugh and another shoulder clap.

It wasn't the most ideal system, but using the cheap clinic was a better alternative than having to go to Sharon and Randy for help. According to Stan, if his parents got involved, Randy would surely find a way to make it all about himself. If this idea went south, then they would _have_ to go to their parents for help. He made Stan promise.

Kyle focused in on the posters pinned to the cork across from him, clinging to each word, hoping that the slower he read, the faster the next 45 minutes would go by. He was worried about what Stan might say. He feared that Dr. Kathy wouldn't like Kyle. She might hypothesize that he's not good enough for Stan, that Stan should leave him.

Kyle sunk lower into the chair, shoulders squared up to his cheeks like a turtle. He read a purple poster about STDs.

(thats stupid)

The more he thought about it, the less sense that assumption made. His fear of losing Stan in anyway possible was piercing his logical side like a fire stoker, antagonizing his brain already on fire.

(stan is here for stan)

(its got nothing to do with me)

...

"My office is way in the back, so we have a bit of a walk," Dr. Kathy walked ahead of Stan at first, then slowed her steps to walk beside him when she realized he wasn't a fast walker. He fixated on the large, watercolor paintings, the cardboard box filled with stress balls, and finally, a long, oak shelf stuffed with hardcover reference books. He resisted the urge to press his fingers into the spines.

"How are you?" Stan asked her when she noticed that she was watching how he walked. Already, he felt like a specimen being observed.

"Doing well," she answered brightly, "And how are you?"

"Good."

"That's great!"

"Well, I guess the session is already over then."

She laughed politely, then opened the door to her office. There was a low hum of air conditioning. The lights were colored soft rose. By the window, a coffee table was placed on an area rug. Two reading chairs with decorative black and white pillows stood on each side. He took the chair furthest from the door and held the pillow across his lap.

"Comfortable?" she sat across from him with a legal pad and rainbow pen.

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I take notes?"

"No, I don't mind."

"Thank you."

Stan leaned back into the chair and watched as she scrawled the date across the top of the paper. She pulled out a thin packet from behind the paper. It was the forms he filled out prior to the appointment.

"I like the paintings," said Stan, looking around at the framed swaths of color hanging on the mauve walls.

"Thanks, some of them are mine. Some of them are students."

"What, like art students?"

"Art _therapy_ students."

"They just gave you their paintings? I find that a little hard to believe."

"Yes, they do. Sometimes they want to let go of it for personal reasons. Or burn it. So I keep it instead."

"That's cool, I guess."

"Do you do any painting or drawing, Stan?"

"Not really. I'll journal sometimes if I feel up to it."

"Maybe sometime you could bring those pages in?"

"Maybe…" He felt the need to say more, but the words formed a ball in his throat and swelled there, too stubborn for his lips and too pulpy to make sense.

She pressed her thin lips into a tight smile. "Before we move forward, I need to do a 'pulse check' with you."

"A pulse check?"

"It's just a few questions to get a gauge on where you are mentally based on what you wrote on these forms."

"Oh, okay…"

"You checked 'yes' that you feel suicidal. How often do you think about killing yourself?"

"Nearly every day."

"How serious does it get?"

Stan became squeamish. If only she could have been a fly on the wall all these years. "What do you mean?"

"Well," she adjusted herself, "a lot of people have thoughts like 'I wish I could fall asleep and never wake up,' but they don't mean it."

"I guess I feel that way sometimes… but other times…" he thought back to the day Kyle had found him passed out on the bathroom floor. Passing out in English class. Burning himself with Kyle's cigarettes when he wasn't in the room. "I've had close encounters."

"Do you have a plan for how you would kill yourself?"

"Not in a detailed way, no… but I guess… I guess I would cut… myself."

She scribbled something down. "And you wrote that you've self-harmed here."

"Yeah…"

"How often do you self-harm, Stan?"

"It's been a long time because my boyfriend threw out all the sharp stuff in my room. I don't even have scissors."

"That's great. That's a good start."

"It's good until I need to cut open a package," he said, adding in a small, nervous laugh. She didn't respond the way he wanted her to. He'd hoped she would drop it.

"So before then, how often?"

"Maybe once a week. Or two weeks. It's a bit difficult to remember now."

More scribbling. "Do you feel like you want to hurt or kill yourself right now, in this moment?"

Stan hesitated. He thought back on that morning, how he woke up with Sparky nuzzling his stomach with a cold nose. When he opened the curtains, fresh snow was falling in sweet drifts, and the chill from the windowpane raised goosebumps on his arm. Snowflakes floated onto Kyle's face and melted on his cheeks. Their boots crunched on salted sidewalks. Mr. Malkinson stopped shoveling his driveway to wave and say hello. Hot coffee touched his lips and warmed his throat. They watched two rabbits leap together from snowbank to snowbank. Kyle's keychains, hanging from the ignition, clashed together when they hit a pothole. He drew a heart in the frosted window.

"No. I don't."

...

Kyle tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling panels. The one right above him had swelled, a water stain expanding across the gypsum. It looked old and too benign to say something about it.

He glanced out the window. More snow was falling.

...

"I _was_ worried about the cut getting infected," Stan said. "But it was an afterthought. I felt stupid after I did it. I could have died."

"Do you remember the last thing you thought before you cut?"

Stan swallowed. He locked his fingers together. His hands were sweating. "There's no way I can pinpoint a specific thought. After awhile they all melt together into one, giant ugly thought. I just wanted the pain to end. I don't think I thought about if I actually wanted to die. I don't want to die… I… none of this makes sense. I'm not making any sense."

Dr. Kathy placed the pen down thoughtfully. "Sometimes, when we're overwhelmed - when the depression hangs so heavy - it's hard to differentiate between wanting the pain to end and actually wanting to die. Those lines blur."

Stan hugged the pillow tighter to his chest. "I feel like I'm saying all the wrong things right now. I don't know how I'm supposed to get better if I can't even describe how I feel without getting flustered."

"No, you're describing everything beautifully. As long as you keep being honest with me, we'll make progress."

Stan nodded but said nothing. He could feel his throat tightening.

"Just imagine we're in a very dark cave, and I'm letting you lead the way. And you're pointing things out and I'm shining a flashlight on them. When you tell me to point somewhere else, that's where I'll point. I've got you. I've got a hand on your elbow."

His eyes stung. "...thank you."

…

Transfer students from North Park, two boys from English, watched and whispered in the back, lips pulled back like grinning dogs as Stan passed out after yelling about Sylvia Plath. Now they were following Stan and Kyle down the street, dodging dog-walkers and people on scooters.

"Sylvia! Hey, Syl-vi-ah!" Their cackles cracked like pistol shots in the cold air.

Transfer students from North Park, two boys from English, watched and whispered in the back, lips pulled back like grinning dogs as Stan passed out after yelling about Sylvia Plath. Now they were following Stan and Kyle down the street, dodging dog-walkers and people of scooters.

Stan knew he had yelled for himself. Once again, he took something ordinary to anyone else, and made it personal. Made it about himself. Inklings of his father surfaced in his mannerisms and he hated it. Maybe he should have told Dr. Kathy about that too, but they ran out of time.

"Sylllviaaahhh…"

Stan shook his head when he felt Kyle look at him.

"Just keep walking," he said, huddling closer onto his coat sleeve. Kyle smelled like an evergreen.

"Sylvia… Syl-vi-ah!"

A sound from Kyle's throat: groaning. Or growling? Stan couldn't tell. He squeezed his hand.

"Why are you passing out in class, Sylvia? Shit, we thought you were _dead._ "

Kyle couldn't stop himself. He glared over his shoulder. "Leave us alone."

"Fuck off, Broflovski," the taller one said.

 _Jeremy,_ Stan told their parents later. _The guy who started it was Jeremy Phillips._ Jeremy had a pinched pink nose and beady eyes. Kyle thought he looked like a rat. Thought he acted like one too.

"No, _you_ fuck off," Kyle stopped and turned to face them. The people in the laundromat next to them peered out of the windows curiously. Stan tried to pull him away.

The shorter one, in an Izod polo and wire-framed glasses, began to laugh. "You know what people say about you guys, right?"

"No, and we don't care," Stan snapped. "Don't you guys have anything better to do?"

"Ouch," Jeremy mockingly placed a hand over his chest. "That hurts, Sylvia. It really does."

The short one laughed again. "Well, I think Kyle here is a vampire, and Stan just needs to keep him fed."

"You _do_ sparkle, Broflovski."

"You really do."

"You have no idea what the fuck you're talking about," Stan said. He was shaking - half with rage, and half pity. _I hope you never have to go through what I've gone through,_ he wanted to say. _I hope you never know what it's like to feel your brain on fire, to want to hurt yourself because you're so numb with pain that you need more pain to feel alive again, to cry so harshly and so long that you can't speak, and it doesn't even matter because everything you say is wrong, wrong, wrong…_

But he knew - he could see it in their grins with all their teeth - they weren't an audience to empathy, incapable of placing themselves in situations where they were, in their opinion, underdogs.

Kyle took a step forward. "Leave us alone, or I'm calling the police."

Jeremy scoffed, "Sure you will. My dad's a lawyer."

"Mine is too," Kyle laughed a laugh almost as cruel as their offenders' cackles. "And a skeevy one too. You'll be fucked."

"Figures," Jeremy huffed. "There's one in every family for _your kind_."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "That's a cheap shot, dude. I'm guessing originality isn't your strong point. You just fall to the waves like every other person in this asshole town."

"So? You have nothing else going on for you besides being a Jew and a fag."

Stan's mouth popped open. Why wasn't anyone intervening? They could all clearly hear, yet they walked around the boys, pulling up their coat collars up to their ears like meek, ignorant vampires.

Kyle seemed to shut down for a moment. No one had called him that since Cartman. Temporarily, he was ten years old again, thrown back on the horizon of time. Then older Kyle returned just as quickly as he'd been lost, a serene expression waxed over his face.

"That's a playground insult," he said with a smile. "Like I said: cheap shot. Your insults are boring. You're boring. And we're going to leave now. C'mon, Stan."

Izod Shirt walked in front of Stan, eyeing him up and down. "You crying, Marsh?"

"Let him be," Kyle warned.

"Why? What's he gonna do?" Jeremy chuckled. "Bleed on us?"

In Stan's eyes, Kyle became a forest fire, tearing across space between them. He headbutted Jeremy, sending him to the sidewalk. All Kyle remembered was seeing red, his heart flaring and his blood buzzing. Then Stan followed, beating down the other kid until bystanders were forced to separate them.

11


	31. Ghost Spots

The Coon, deleted ending:  watch?v=Lr2eyK-jZ2Q

Little cyclones of leaves settled onto the ground. The water in Stark's Pond lay flat. Birds broke from branches and spilled into the sky.

Kyle touched Stan's face. His cheeks were sunken, body shrunken, with a frame so tiny and scarily breakable. Running a finger over his lips was like caressing a marble statue, chipped away and dirtied by the hands of careless tourists.

"I'm gross, I know," said Stan.

"You're not gross. I just can't believe you're real."

"I could say the same about you," he buried his face in Kyle's chest, smelling sweat and evergreen. "I had so many dreams where you would come down and find me. But every time I woke up, you weren't there."

Kyle pulled him tighter, wincing at his own throbbing stomach, glad it was dark so Stan couldn't see that he was in pain.

"I want to see your face," Stan said, coughing, his voice lacerated from dehydration. "I have one candle left. I was saving it for an emergency but I have to know… It could be one of the voices or I'm hallucinating again."

"Voices?"

Stan pulled away. Kyle held his breath. He should have figured this would happen. Stan had gone stir-crazy or had cabin fever, whatever it was called. A temporary touch of insanity. He chose his next words carefully:

"Stan, has someone else been talking to you down here?"

A fraught pause. "I have conversations."

"With who?"

No answer. Instead, he came face-to-face with a freshly lit candle and Stan's large, navy eyes staring at him. He looked ill, hair hanging in stringy clumps around his face and crooked mouth, which rested slightly agape. But he was still Stan. Complete and real, in the flesh. Not wax.

"Kyle," he reached for his scalp, "You cut off all your hair. And you pierced your nose?"

"I went a little crazy after you-" he stopped himself. He almost said _died._ There was no way he could fit in that tale just yet. It was too soon. "-after you went missing. I thought you were never coming back."

"It looks good on you."

Kyle smiled a small half-smile - happy to see Stan, terrified of what may come next.

He pried again: "Stan, were there people talking to you down here?"

"Not anymore." Stan's eyes went from joyous to instant solemn reflection. He looked behind, and beyond Kyle. "I have to show you something."

…

He showed him the shrine, leveling the candle to different parts like a seek-and-find game. Skulls were turned over and the broken glass littered over the purple tablecloth. Kyle stood, trying not to make it obvious that he was holding his side, but the pain was growing. He gagged. A familiar sweet, hot scent was wavering.

In the center, he revealed the decaying photo of a skinny man with insulting eyes and the beard of a goat (which made Kyle jump back). In front of Goat Man was the husk of a rabbit, positioned in a leap as if it might still sprint away.

"I talk to Ori sometimes," Stan said.

"Who?" Kyle drew his elbow over his nose, "The guy in the picture?"

"No." He pointed to Ori's exposed ribs.

"Stan, that rabbit is dead. Very, very dead."

"Doesn't mean I can't talk to them."

Thinking back to the times he sat in front of Stan's grave marker, heels digging into the mud, Kyle nodded slightly. Now me might start talking to his mother. He closed his eyes tight

(dont think about it dont think dont think about it)

"So what happened?" Kyle asked. The image of the blood-soaked hallway of his house flashed in and out of his mind.

"I don't know. They just stopped breathing one day."

"Oh."

"But that's not what I really wanted to show you. Here."

He handed Kyle one of the leather-bound journals, then spoke while Kyle thumbed through the pages.

"I think this was written either by the dude in the picture or by someone who loved him. Most of it looks like it's in Latin, but there are weird sketches. I mean, I've seen pentagrams before but it all looks ritualistic. And then the other ones… I'll never get those out of my head."

Kyle flipped to a drawing of two people hanging by ropes off a tree branch. "Oh."

"Read the last page."

On the last, crumpled paper, reading _April 2009_ on the top, Kyle read aloud: "Behold. The mighty voices of my vengeance smash the stillness of the air and stand as monoliths of wrath upon a plain of writhing serpents. I am become as a monstrous machine of annihilation to the festering fragments of the body of he who would detain me…"

Kyle read the rest silently. _Doom, agony, brain-pulp,_ and _impaled_ were words that stuck out to him.

"Kyle, there are bones all over this fucking place. I think there was some sort of group or cult that died down here."

"It wouldn't be the first time we've had something like that happen here."

"Do you think they sacrificed themselves? Like a suicide pact or something?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Kyle tilted the book up for a moment, squinting. He tried to sound calm, logical, but his heart was racing. The air around them was shifting as if reacting to their conversation, turning sour. "This town is so fucked up. I'm 1000% sure that it's cursed."

"What is this?" Stan asked, reaching for Kyle's hand.

"What?"

"Is this my ring?" The engagement band glowed in the candlelight.

Kyle lowered the book, staring back into Stan's eyes. "I kept it after the night you proposed. I haven't taken it off since."

Stan stayed still, listening to Kyle's soft breathing. "I was scared that you'd forgotten about me."

"Stan, there wasn't a single second that went by where I didn't think about you."

A quiet minute passed between them.

"I missed you," Stan said, wrapping his arm around Kyle's torso. Kyle flinched, unable to stop a seething pain blowing in hot puffs of air between his teeth. "What, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"There's just so much that happened, and I don't know how to tell you everything."

"Spit it out, Broflovski."

Kyle doubled over, giggling. He couldn't tell whether he was about to vomit or cry or both.

"It's Marsh now."

"What are you talking about?"

Kyle sunk to his knees. Stan went with him, gripping his shoulder. "What happened to you?"

"You want the whole, actual truth?"

"I do. And nothing less."

"Fine." Kyle untied Kenny's jacket, then put it back on normally. He did this as slow as he could, afraid that the sudden movements would make him pass out. He lifted his shirt. Dried blood was stuck to it. He wiped flakes of it away.

Stan held the candle to it, looking over the red gashes. He sucked in his breath.

"Who the hell did this to you?"

"Cartman."

"Cartman! How?"

"He got out. I don't know how, but he fucking got out and he was probably terrorizing the town before he got to me and he killed my parents-"

"-whoa, whoa, wait-"

"-and now he's knocked out on my living room floor with Kenny."

"Hold on, your parents are dead?"

"Maybe," his breath was turning shallow and forced. "No. Yes. Yes, they're gone."

"Kyle…"

"We need to get out of here, Stan. I don't know how long Kenny can hold him off."

"Hold on a sec, Ky," his hand hovered over the wounds. "This looks awful."

"It fucking hurts." Kyle lied down, staring up into darkness. Stan set the candle onto the table and shuffled up next to him.

"Do you think it could get infected?"

"It probably already is."

Stan reached into his pocket. Most of the whiskey he had found was gone from nights (or days, there was no way for him to know) where he couldn't get to sleep. But there was a sliver, just enough to clean the cuts until they could get proper help.

"Stay still for a sec, Kyle," Stan said, giving the bottle a tiny shake.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Alcohol."

"I don't think it's a good idea to get crunk right now, dude," Kyle said, then rolled over, coughing violently. He tasted blood.

"Holy shit, you okay?"

"Yeah," Kyle lied.

"I know you're trying to joke, but we have to do this before it gets worse."

"Fuck." Kyle rolled back.

Stan peeled back Kyle's shirt, fingers grazing over the soft skin of his stomach. "Do you remember the morning of your Bar Mitzvah?"

"The day you reeled me in? Hell yeah."

"Stop, I still feel bad about that. I mean afterward. Do you remember what you said to my uncle?"

"Vaguely. That whiskey went right through me."

"You told my uncle Jimbo that you love me. You said you hated being at home, hated the way your dad was, but it was okay because I make things better and you love me. You said I'm your best friend and you'd die for me."

Kyle listened, continuing to stare upward, the small flame flickering and the smell of decay and wetness ebbing. "It's still true."

"You also told Ned that my nose is cute."

Kyle reached out and pinched Stan's nose. "Still also true."

Crystalized silence formed between them. Then Stan spoke again: "I don't want you to die for me, Kyle. Not now. Not ever. And I don't want to hurt you, but-"

"-fuckin' do it."

So many school nights were spent sitting in Kyle's room, doing nothing, and Stan tried to imagine they were there now. Stan would climb through the window, sink into the bed and wrap his legs in blankets. Kyle would throw himself across his lap. Music played on their laptop while he walked his fingers up Kyle's spine and count the bumps of his spine, making up different numbers each time.

"Okay," he uncorked the bottle, "On the count of three."

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

…

 **June 16, 2007**

He watched his own feet dangling from the bed as the officer closed the gate shut.

"That's it, lights out. Good night, _Mysterion._ "

Kyle Broflovski, just recently 10 years old, had briefly taken the alternate identity for someone he thought he didn't know, sighed. "Goodnight."

Suddenly, the hooded boy who everyone was talking about appeared, kneeling in front of the cell, jolting Kyle out of his trance.

"Why did you do that, Kyle?"

Kyle stared at the side of the boy's face for a moment before speaking. He swore he recognized the profile, but…

"Well, you had asked for help."

"I didn't mean you should dress up and pretend to be me to take the fall."

Kyle slipped off the tiny bed and approached the bars to get a closer look at him. "Ah, it's alright. I'll be out of here in a few days."

Mysterion finally turned to look at Kyle, frowning. "Goodbye, then." He turned to leave.

"Wait, wait…"

He stopped.

Kyle gripped the cold bars. "I'm sorry, but I can't take it anymore. I really want to know who you are."

"... I guess I owe you that much."

The boy pulled up his mask.

Kyle stared. "I don't believe it."

…

(i dont believe it)

Kenny had Cartman pinned down to the carpet, sitting on his back, arms clamped into a bow and his a Chef's knife fixed over Cartman's face.

He awoke, groaning, chin on the carpet. Kenny held him down.

"Don't move or I'll cut out a chunk of your fivehead," Kenny warned.

"Fuck you, Kenny."

"You can say your fantasies all you want. I'm not letting go."

Cartman wriggled weakly. It was like they were kids again, roughhousing in the backyard, forcing each other's faces into mud and snow, their palms colored orange from the rust on swing set chains.

The open front door was only a few feet away.

"Are you going to kill me, Kenny?"

"Thinking about it."

"Waste of your time. I never think about it. When I killed Craig, I-"

Kenny tipped the sharp point into his cheek, ripping and bringing blood down his face.

"Fuuuck," Cartman grunted, then "I forgot Craig was your friend."

"All of them were my friends. You're a fucking monster."

"I'm human. With extra benefits."

Kenny shook his head. "You could've gotten better. You just couldn't let anyone help you. And now you've gone too far. You think you control these powers, but you don't. _They_ control _you._ "

"Oh, fuck you. all of you abandoned me! You were my friends for years and then you just stopped talking to me like I had the plague or some shit."

"I get it."

"No, you don't."

"I do." Kenny could feel Cartman become tense underneath him. "I know how it feels to be an outsider. Fuck, you were a part of that yourself. You _always_ tried to ostracize me."

"It's different. You still _had people._ You have a sister."

"You had your mom."

"My mother hates me."

Kenny stared into the back of Cartman's head, then looked over at Gerald's corpse. He thought back to the night where he had threatened to kill Gerald himself. But Sheila…

He thought of his sister - sick, growing weaker every second. Sympathy for the Devil was a fundamental trait for Kenny, Cartman had been right about that, but not this kind of devil.

"Well, I'm sure you'll make friends in Hell," Kenny pressed the knife to Cartman's throat.

"Kenny?"

Karen and Ike appeared in the doorway, watching.

Cartman twisted over. Every house light, streetlight, television, appliance, and computer switched off, leaving South Park in complete blackness. Kenny felt himself being thrown off the bull and onto the floor. He frantically searched for the knife, digging his hands into the carpet.

The porch light flickered on and Cartman stood, arm across Karen's chest, the knife to her throat. All he could see of Ike was his feet on the front lawn.

"Tell me where Kyle went or this little bitch dies."

Kenny's veins became strings, pulling his organs south. "Let her go. _Now_."

"Tell me where Kyle went," he repeated slowly, "And I will."

"No! Don't tell him!" Karen whimpered.

Cartman jerked her back. "Shut up."

"Kyle wasn't supposed to leave. I don't know where he is!"

"You're lying!"

A crack of power whipped through the Broflovski house, flashing every light until the bulbs burst and sparks emanated from the T.V.

(fuck hes getting worse)

"Cartman, if you don't control yourself, you're going to give yourself a brain hemorrhage," he took a step toward them, extending a hand, "Come on, she's never done anything to you. Give her to me."

"Why should I?" he pressed the backside of the blade under her jaw. "Why should I give her back when I could just kill her right in front of you?"

"Kenny!" Karen cried.

Kenny shuddered.

(forgive me)

"Don't waste your energy on her."

Karen's eyes went wide. "What are you _doing?_ " she mouthed.

"What do you mean?"

"You were just telling me how you don't waste time. And look at you now, Cartman. You're wasting time. There's a mortally wounded Kyle limping around out there, and you're here holding Karen hostage. Not worth it."

Cartman loosened his grip. He laughed. "I can't believe you're shelling out your boyfriend."

"And I can't believe you're still fucking standing here. He's probably somewhere around Stark's Pond. That's where he always goes."

Suddenly, Karen was thrust into his arms. Cartman backed away, pointing to them with the knife.

"Don't come after me," he said, then disappeared.

Karen quivered, wiping blood from her nose with a drooping sleeve. "I'm sorry, Kenny. We just wanted to make sure you guys were okay. We got really fucking scared."

Kenny sighed. A few neighbors stood in their doorways, their silhouettes watching with crossed arms, whispering to one another.

"Hey, hey, buddy," Randy Marsh was crooning over Ike, lightly tapping his cheeks until he stirred.

Ike's first words: "What the fuck?"

They dashed out to the front yard as Ike was getting up.

"Hey, did you see what the hell happened?" Randy asked them. Sparky was outside too, growling and snarling into the air, focused on the direction Cartman left in.

"He killed them," Ike snapped. "He fucking killed them."

Ike wavered, then fell into Randy.

"What is he talking about?" Randy held Ike up with one arm.

Sirens wailed down the street, and lights flashed over the people walking aimlessly in their yards. Kenny looked over his shoulder at the house, to Kyle's bedroom window.

"Gerald and Sheila are dead. And Kyle is going to be too if I don't go now."

"You're the one who fucking told him where he is!" Karen shoved her brother, "How could you?"

Kenny grabbed her arms. "I _had_ to. He was going to kill you." In the whites of her eyes, he saw the red and blue flashing lights. "Fuck, I can't stay here. I've got DNA all over me."

He turned to Randy. "When the police talk to you, you tell them it was Eric Cartman. You tell them it was that fucking asshole Eric Cartman is why they're dead."

"I don't…" Randy trailed off, enveloped in confusion about the barking dog, the teenager he held, who was mumbling curses under his breath like a deranged lunatic.

"Listen," Kenny looked back to Karen. "If anything happens to me-"

"-nothing is going to happen to you!"

"Please, just listen. If something happens to me, I need you to know that I love you so, so much. You're going to do amazing things. Everything you will ever need," he laid a hand over his own heart, "is right here. Always take care of it first."

Karen pulled him into a hug. "I love you too."

Police car doors slammed shut behind them.

They parted. Kenny slowly began walking backward.

"It's going to be alright. I promise," he said to all of them.

"Sir!" one of the officers shouted to Kenny. "Sir, we need you to stay where you are!"

Kenny broke into a sprint. A few officers ran after him, but Kenny was faster. He dodged their bullets as he ran into open darkness and into the whispering woods.

15


	32. Eric

They ask me what kind of dreams I'm having & I say I don't know. What are dreams.

I close my eyes & see black & feel blood swishing in my neck & hear the _tock-tick tock-tick_ of the clock between my voice

& they ask if I remember what I did

Do I remember the boy

& of course I remember the boy because I was a boy & we were all boys but they try to forget me and I always remember because it's right it's right here

His throat in my hand

They all come apart all of them - K. & S. & K. they come apart like snapping strings on a violin _pluck pluck pluck_

They ask me Eric Eric do you remember the boy do you remember you almost killed him

& I say yes there is that boy and his eyes are large & green like jewels in a pirate's skull - ivory as his skin - & his arms are long & always outstretched like a bird-boy and fucking bird-boy & I bet his bones are hollow too & I bet if I saw him again I'd twist his head off


	33. Spit

Stan shook him.

"Kyle, wake up!"

He turned his wrist over and touched with two fingers. A slim, quarter note pulse bore up from his skin.

Kyle awoke, shrouded in a cold sweat. His hand shot up, dipping into Stan's cheek. Stan squeezed his fingers.

"Was I out long?"

"Long enough to freak me out. You okay?"

"Yeah. That hurt like fucking hell," he sat up, brain swirling and static pouring from his ears, tongue feeling too large for his mouth.

"Whoa, dude," Stan wrapped himself around Kyle's body, arms over his collarbone. "We can sit here for a second, it's okay."

Numbness pandered throughout Kyle's stomach and legs. Stan's hot breath on the back of his neck was the only thing he could feel, and tingles sent him back to his bedroom - warmth, blue walls, Stan's cheek pressed against his arm. He thought of the dreams like this, trapped in enclosing darkness with no way out, and couldn't help but wonder if he somehow knew this may happen, if his subconscious had been trying to warn him. Sheila told him that these dreams were just anxiety, or their ancestors were trying to convey their experiences through him. Jewish children are never happy, she said, wiping tarnish from an old spoon, everything haunts us.

But in these dreams, he's always alone. Stan would be there when he woke up.

He looked to the dripping candle, then felt his stomach. The wounds were stinging again, but he was glad for the pain. It meant he was alive.

"I've been close to getting out before," Stan said. He could feel Kyle wanted to get up. And get out. "I was close, but the ground was frozen, and then…"

He couldn't think of how to tell Kyle what had happened next. That something wanted to keep him trapped like a doll in a shadow box.

Kyle didn't seem to notice the pause. He turned over and stood up, pulling Stan with him. His legs quivered. "Do you think if we went together, we could find that spot again?"

"We could," Stan whispered. "You sure you're up for it? You're shaking."

"I'm feeling good right now. I want to use that feeling while we still can."

Maybe with Kyle, they could overcome whatever forces binding Stan to his role in this dark village of corpses and curses. Or they would fall together.


	34. Kenny

I've spent hundreds of mornings letting lukewarm water run over my hair and wash the blood clots down the drain. Red becomes pink and pink becomes clear and then it's time to go to work.

Hundreds of nights I've spent in the streets, watching others live the lives that I want. Some nights I see those lives get taken away because I was too late. It doesn't matter how young or old they look - I still beat myself up every time for it. Wickedness slices faster than a knife across the neck.

Late nights like this one I've also spent walking through the woods, hearing twigs snap under my feet and seeing the glowing eyes of small animals wondering why I'm there.

For what has felt like hundreds of years, I've heard his voice in my head

(wait wait

i need to know who you are)

Sometimes mixed with

(explain this to me now

what the fuck is all this

are you in a cult or something)

I don't know who or what I am really. A (good?) brother, a (good?) son, a (good?) boyfriend, a (good?) person. Most people tell me I am (good). But most people's idea of (good) is different from other people's idea of it.

If anything, I'm just Kenny. Kenny the Poor Kid. Kenny, Here For a Good Time, Not a Long Time. Kenny, the Wallflower.

I pass under the stars and remember they're all dead.

(i need to know who you are)

Maybe I'm just pretending to be a human.


	35. Brass Blood

**A/N:**

 **Y'all are gonna hate me.**

Time was still as they searched the labyrinth. Every few moments, Stan took a struggling breath that created a snag in Kyle's own heart.

"You okay?" He slid an arm around his waist. "You sound like you can't breathe."

"I'm fine. I'm just not used to being up and about like this. Sometimes it got so cold that I couldn't move."

The image of Stan alone, cold, and shaking ensnared him.

"I'm worried we're going in circles," Stan added.

"There's no way this place is _that_ big."

Kyle wished he had shoes on. Parts of the ground were wet and his socks soaked with mud.

"I don't know. It could be."

Above them was chaos, Kyle imagined. Cops should be at his house, arresting Cartman. He would be hard to catch at first, but with Kenny there, they would get him. They had to. No one else needed to die. For half a second he wondered if he should have stayed, not let them coax him back here. Stan's sighs, soothing like a tranquil ocean, flipped his mind backward.

First, he thought his dreams were warning him. Now he swore the woods had been calling to him.

(trees dont whisper)

The night terrors that plagued him as a child came hurtling back: eating apple seeds and growing trees in his body, fingers, and toes becoming branches. Then his parents, his friends, tried to shove him down into the fire.

After everything, he still wanted to believe in a logical explanation. Believe that all of this was backed up by confusion. Tricks of the eye. Smoke and mirrors. But then there was Kenny. He had diffused the smoke and shattered the mirror of what Kyle thought reality to be. _This_ was reality.

Stan had said something about voices. Conversations with a dead rabbit, he admitted, but Kyle was questioning if Stan only said that to divert him away from the subject. He'd done similar things before to get away from the emotional truth of things. But Stan _had_ to have seen and heard the things Kyle was seeing and hearing. He just had to.

There was a _crunch_ , then Stan tripped. "Shit, shit."

They stepped to the side. Another _crunch_. A hard object struck Kyle's ankle.

"What the hell are we stepping on?" Kyle spun them around. Stan lowered the candle to reveal skeletons. A row of human skeletons laid side by side, arms across their chests in an _x's_.

"Why… why are they just lying like that?" Stan whimpered.

Kyle searched them over. Their clothes looked new. It couldn't have happened that long ago.

"They look mostly intact," Kyle said, kneeling over one in a black blouse, "It could have been poison."

Stan was quiet, looking over their discovery. He had stumbled upon many bones and skulls over the past few weeks, but not these whole bodies.

"Why would they do this to themselves?" he whispered.

"You think this was a suicide pact or something?"

Stan nodded.

"Maybe it was sacrificial."

"Does that make it any better?"

"No. No, it doesn't."

Kyle touched a medical ID bracelet on the wrist of the body he kneeled over.

"Kelly Turner," he read aloud.

"I thought she moved away."

"Yeah, they said she was missing at first but that was a rumor-" Kyle stopped, remembering how not long after Stan went missing, his posters were being torn down. Even before they found a body.

"I'm so sorry, Kelly," Kyle murmured.

"Kyle… do you think that could have happened to me?" Stan asked, shaking.

Kyle nudged him. "I'd never let that happen. But these people were probably brainwashed. I wouldn't be surprised if there was some underground society all this time."

He couldn't bear the thought of a cult pulling the strings here, but mob mentality absorbed people here every day. And the evidence had found them.

"I want to get the hell out of here," Stan said hoarsely.

"I'm with you. Fuck this place."

…

Ike watched as uniformed workers in blue gloves and masks wheeled his parents out of their house, the white sheets like snow caps on mountains he'd never see again.

Karen touched his shoulder, "I am so sorry."

Ike said nothing but patted her hand.

Charged chatter surrounded them. The police lights burned through the already hot, dry air. An officer appeared behind them.

"Are you the Broflovski kid?" he asked.

They jerked, turned around to see a tall, toad-faced man with pointed ears.

"Yes," he mumbled, reading his nametag. Bael.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"A piece of shit killed my parents."

"We know that, son. I'm sorry."

His "son" felt degrading, reminding him what he would never be called again. Karen squeezed his hand as if to say _it's just police vernacular, he didn't mean it._

Sparky bounded from the yard over, in front of Sharon who brought out water bottles. He stood in front of Ike and leaned into his legs, fur bristling up like the crest of a dragon.

Karen looked up to Office Bael. "His name is Eric Cartman. He broke into the house and murdered Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski. He would have killed others if my brother hadn't stopped him."

"Where's your brother now?"

"I don't know. He went after Eric in the woods over by Stark's Pond."

"He should have left that to us," Bael's eyelids lowered, zoning in on Karen's face, her gray-blue eyes and freckles. "Who's your brother?"

"Kenny McCormick."

"Figures."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. That kid is always trying to play the hero. Getting involved when he shouldn't. Like he's trying to take work from us-"

Ike cut in: "Well, maybe that wouldn't happen if you were better at your jobs."

"Is there something I can help you with, sir?" Sharon prodded, staring at the back of his head.

He ignored her, grimaced, then squatted eye level with Ike. Sparky growled.

"I understand that you're upset, but you don't need to…"

Ike stopped listening. He could only see the officer's mouth. Every time it opened a little bigger he stared. The tongue. The tongue was bifurcated like a lizard's, like the woman at the funeral home. He shot his arm across Karen and pushed themselves back.

"Stay away from us," he said, "Stay the fuck away from us!"

"Something I said?" Officer Bael stood up. With one long step, he grabbed Ike by the shirt collar, breathing hot, sour milk breath in his face. "It doesn't matter if you run. _We_ own this place now."

Karen's stomach twinged. With a quick turn, she vomited on Bael's arm.

"What the fuck!" he dropped Ike and pulled at the maroon-soaked sleeve. "Fuck this, fuck you people. I'm out."

He stomped off behind them and disappeared down the street, leaving Karen on her knees, retching earth and blood while Ike and Sharon held her shoulders.

…

They had been crawling on their elbows and knees for what felt like hours.

"This has to be the same tunnel I found before," Stan had said, but he felt as if he were outside of himself. The tunnel expanded and narrowed like a throat, sucking them in.

"It stops here," he said as they climbed into an alcove, "It's all compact and hard."

Kyle pawed above him. Clumps of dirt fell into his eyes and mouth. He spat, squeezing his eyes shut with stinging tears. "Fuck! It's like fucking acid!"

"What? You okay?"

"Yeah, just give me a sec," Kyle spat again. "I think I felt wood."

"No comment."

"Stan."

"Let me feel," Stan reached up and scratched, feeling smooth oak. He pushed with his palm and his wrist bent too much, but whatever it was - a door, maybe - moved. There was a little flame left. He could set it on fire. But they were in such a tight space, they would suffocate before it burned away. It felt like they were suffocating already. And there was no telling how long it would have to burn before it was clear to leave.

Kyle pushed up. "I think we can move this. It's already giving way."

Stan blew out the candle.

...

Stan and Kyle continued scraping at the dirt above them. Kyle wiped the sweat from his lips and forehead. What they thought was a door and longer and much heavier than they expected, and the tedious clawing pissed Kyle off. Every passing minute felt like fire ants biting his insides with more and more ferocity. He was almost crazy, now kicking upward with his heel and tearing his socks, sending dirt cascading down.

"Fucking fuck, Kyle."

Kyle kicked again, and the wood jolted higher.

"COME ON!" He kicked once more.

"Watch out!" Stan covered Kyle's body with his own as the object fell, nose down into their enclosed space. More dirt poured in from the edge of the opening. Stan breathed hard, his arms still over Kyle's chest. "You okay?"

"Am _I_ okay?" Kyle said, holding him. "You could have been hit."

"It was about to smash your face in." Kyle opened his mouth to reply, but Stan shushed him. "Don't say it would have been an improvement."

Weak moonlight beamed down at an angle on their feet. The boys crouched and moved toward it. Kyle recognized it as a casket, but he pursed his lips and said nothing. He thought of Stan's funeral - none of it seemed real then and how none of this seemed real now.

"What's wrong?" White spots peppered in and out of Stan's vision but he could still make out some of Kyle's face. Blurred lips and teeth.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You are," Stan insisted. "I can feel it in your ribs."

"Yeah, and I feel nothing but your ribs," he ran a finger down Stan's side. "We have to get you out of here."

Kyle stepped onto the casket first, keeping Stan's hand in his. The slippery wood didn't help.

Stan climbed up after. Through the opening, he could see the sickle moon and several stars. Fresh air wafted down to his face, and he breathed deeply. He heard crickets and frogs. Looking down at his shoes, blinking hard, he asked: "Is this a casket?"

"Yeah," Kyle pulled him up into a rectangular pit. "We're in someone's grave. I don't know why it was dug up, but we got lucky. We got really fucking lucky." He patted the dirt walls around until he felt a few looping, thick roots to pull on.

Stan was standing still, opening and closing his eyes, breathing but shaking.

"Babe, stay right there," Kyle instructed, "I'm going to climb out and pull you up."

Cramming his foot into the dirt, Kyle hoisted himself up, pulling on roots and reaching an arm over the edge. He looked to the side and saw the grave marker:

 **STAN MARSH**

 **1999-2017**

 **BELOVED SON**

 **STARE WITH ME INTO THE ABYSS**

Kyle stared, wide-eyed, his face flat on his arm. The memory went through him like a bright white shock - Stan's waxy face and Father Maxi's hand on his shoulder and Wendy's sobbing and Kyle thinking repeatedly

(why why why

why did it have to be you)

Kyle shuddered.

"S-Stan?"

"Yes?"

He felt relief, hearing the small voice ring up from below.

Kyle threw his leg up and over the side and rolled onto the grass. For a moment, all he could see were stars. He wondered where Kenny's star was, and his stomach twisted.

He leaned over and pulled Stan up by his arms.

Stan rolled onto his back next to Kyle, grazing his palms slowly over the grass. His sharpened cheeks were wet as he also took in the stars. Gray clouds circled on the edges of sky. Cicadas screeched. Owls bellowed.

"I never thought I'd feel this again," he whispered. "I didn't think I would make it much longer."

Kyle could lie there and listen to Stan breathe forever under an open night sky. But Cartman was looking for them - if they stayed there any longer, they might as well yell _come and get us! Come peel our skin over our skulls!_

"Come on, we have to keep moving."

They stood up. Stan wobbled, almost falling backward, but Kyle caught him. He gazed up into Kyle's face and cradled his cheek.

"God, you're fucking beautiful."

"No, you're describing yourself."

"I'm serious. The worst part about being trapped down there was not knowing if I'd ever see you again."

Kyle wrapped him into a hug.

"Sorry if I smell bad."

"Nothing a hot shower can't fix," Kyle chuckled, then sighed. "It's been hell since you've been gone."

Squinting, Stan caught sight of the marble that displayed his name.

"What the hell…?"

"Stan, wait-"

Breaking from Kyle's arms, he stumbled over to the grave marker, running his fingers over ABYSS.

"Is this… is this me?"

Kyle sucked in his breath. "No, it's not. It's not you. You're real. You're here and alive and you're real."

"Who the hell dug me up?"

"I don't know. But it doesn't matter. It's not you."

"It matters to me! I don't care if it's actually me or not," he peered down into the pit. "I want to see."

Kyle snatched his arm. "Fuck, no. You can't be serious."

"Dead serious."

"Stan, I promise as soon as all of this is over, I'll explain everything. And this…" he gripped the curved top of the marker, "This is getting destroyed. But right now, we have to get help. Cartman could find us any second."

Stan swallowed, a few crystal tears falling to the grass. "Why did this have to happen to us?"

Kyle curved a tendril of hair behind his ear, "I don't think anyone else would have lasted, babe."

...

Saint Marcouf, a tiny church beyond the graves, was crumbling. The rushing of the river behind it harmonized with the breeze. As far as the boys knew, it hadn't been actively used since the late 80s, and the people who used it were French Christians. Like the church, it was a small group that crumbled back into the dirt. Now it was a refuge for their classmates to drink and have sex in. They figured someone had to be hanging out in there. Someone that could help them.

"You know," Kyle said, as they limped toward it, "Sparky's going to lose his mind when you come back home."

Stan held on to Kyle's arm, smiling. "I can't wait."

Above the cracked door hung a hornet's nest. Kyle's blood buzzed in his ears. They passed under it.

Dusty pews lined the room in front of them. No one was there.

A white statue of Saint Marcouf himself, paint chipping away, was plastered to the right-back corner, gesturing to a golden bowl of holy water at his feet.

"Oh my God," Stan went to him and dunked his face inside.

Kyle pulled Stan's shoulder, "Don't! It's still water. We don't know what kind of shit is in it."

"It's probably just rainwater," Stan said, looking up at the holes in the roof.

"Still."

Candles stood at attention under the brass mold of Jesus at the altar, confined to a cross, thin rays around his face, lips turned down and eyes cast up as if to ask

(why)

Kyle looked to him, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed.

(and where have YOU been this whole time

like you would be there for someone like me anyway)

Kyle kicked away a bottle of Budweiser, then looked over the preacher's podium. Anarchy signs, angular S's, 3D cubes, and the Metallica logo were scratched into it.

Stan dug out his phone and wiped dirt off the screen. He held the power button. The Verizon logo glowed, then filtered to the home screen. The photo of Kyle sitting alone on his bed was gone. Now it was solid red.

"Holy shit, you have your phone?"

"Yeah. I have 29% power left."

Leaning over the podium, Kyle wrung his hands. "I sent you a lot of texts."

"I see that."

Stan turned his phone over so he could see the screen. The last message was painful: "April 31, 2017. 3:06 am. Stan… please be all right. Please, please be okay. I miss you so much."

Rain dripped through the slats. Moonlight beamed through the mizzling and stained-glass windows of orange and purple triangles.

"I didn't just send messages. I looked for you everywhere. We all did. Kenny and I put up posters all day. Well, before I got sick anyway."

"You were sick? Like how?"

Kyle hesitated. He had already hidden so much from Stan, afraid he wouldn't be able to handle it. The trail of secrets had to end soon.

"You know I've never been superstitious, but after you disappeared, I think my perspective got bitch-slapped on some things. There's a whole layer to this world that I didn't know about. Something that's been lingering over us. We couldn't see it, but it infected us. And I wasn't the only one who got sick. Some had it worse than me, though. Heidi and Butters died."

"What! Are you - no… are you telling me you could have died?"

"I don't know. Maybe? Every day I was throwing up blood, maggots, worms, dirt. Before I fell into that sinkhole thing, I saw my parents. They tried to make me kill myself. They wanted me to throw myself into a fire."

"Your… dead parents? They were in the woods?"

"Oh god, you think I'm crazy."

With a frail hand, Stan reached out and touched his elbow. "I believe you, Kyle. Are you still sick?"

"No, I got lucky. Kenny could make it stop."

"How would he even know?"

"He knows more about this kind of stuff. He put me in a weird bath with this hot ass water and-"

"Kenny gave you a bath?"

"N-Not like what you're thinking."

Rats scratched inside the walls. Thunder rattled, making them scurry faster.

"I'm calling 911."

"Okay. Yeah, you do that."

Stan stared, confused by Kyle's sudden loss of eye contact, his change of voice, suddenly a higher octave. He pressed the phone to his ear and waited. A first responder picked up, and he quickly explained, walking out to sit down in a pew.

Kyle looked around. Wood creaked under his feet. A paltry organ sat in the corner, covered in broken glass, cobwebs, and dead beetles. Kyle often thought about how much of a waste it was.

"Can you please send someone to help us?" Stan pleaded in the background.

Kyle looked to Jesus.

The brass blood leaking from his hands reminded him of his own blood and the blood he had seen from Kenny, the blood he wiped from Karen's mouth, on the pavement after Butters dove into it, the blood from Stan's arms. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted to stop the bleed.

(it will never stop)

Heavy, sudden footsteps came into earshot from the roof. There was only one person Kyle knew that would bother entering from a rooftop like this.

"Kenny?"

A boot tore one hole larger. Dust puffed out in thin clouds. Rats fell through and broke their necks when they hit the floor.

Before they could move, Cartman dropped. His face shined with rainwater and blood. He panted, eyes bulging like a rabid raccoon. Stan tried to run, but Cartman twisted his fingers into Stan's hair and yanked him upward.

The phone clattered to the floor. _Hello? You with us? Sir?_

Kyle bolted. "Let him go!"

Cartman merely twitched an eye at him, and Kyle flew back, crashing into the podium. The wounds on his stomach tore.

"God, you're so light, Stan! You're like a fucking rag doll!" He stuck the tip of his knife to Stan's temple.

"Fuck you!" Stan twisted and kicked Cartman in the stomach, forcing him to drop his knife.

"Oh, you asshole!" Cartman threw Stan to the ground and stomped on his ribs. The bone break and Stan's scream tore through the church. "Why wouldn't you just fucking die?!"

Kyle jumped. He clasped himself around Cartman's body like a spider, arms tightening around his neck.

…

 **Spring 2009**

Another afternoon of baseball practice had come and gone. The boys, exhausted from the heat and skinned knees, slouched in Randy's car. Stan sat in the front, looking out the window and occasionally turning the knobs on the radio. Kenny fell asleep on Kyle's shoulder. Kyle watched Cartman play _Grand Theft Auto_ on his Gameboy.

"Beat up the old ladies," Kyle advised, "they have more money."

"Of course they do," said Cartman.

Stan turned the station, then squealed when a familiar riff pulsed through the speakers.

"Dad, Dad, can I turn this up?"

"Sure. I'm only on my sixth aspirin today."

"The Downfall of Us All," became louder. Kenny woke up. All of them joined in singing together, even screaming as if they were little punk artists.

...

Feral instinct surged through Kyle - his heart pumped faster, his skin pinpricks, and his teeth sunk into Cartman's ear, hard and forceful until the lobe ripped away.

Falling to the floor, his mouth full of blood lining his teeth, he spat out the flesh in front of Jesus and everyone else.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Cartman cried, holding the side of his face.

"Stop!" A lone policeman walked in pointing a pistol.

Kyle put his hands up. "Thank god," he breathed. He could have puked, still able to taste Cartman's blood. "You okay, Stan?"

Stan's face was blank, numb with shock but he was still breathing. He gazed at Kyle, the whites of his eyes glowing hot. "Uh-huh," he answered, though his voice was strained.

The officer stepped closer and Kyle could make out his frog-shaped face, and bloodstains on his uniform.

"What took you so damn long?" Cartman said.

Kyle's heart stopped. The officer lowered the gun to his forehead.

"Him?" he asked.

"Wait, wait! I didn't do anything!" Kyle gestured to Cartman. "He's the one that's been killing people!"

"I know," Bael said. "We've been trying to break him out over the past year."

"...what?" Stan croaked, holding on to his ribs.

Cartman huffed. "If you want something done right, you do it yourself."

"That's why you're our leader."

Doom, agony, brain-pulp, impaled. Nightmares unfurled from each word, and here they were, swelling in front of them like an infected eye. But Kyle didn't want to give up. He had to stall them somehow.

"Before you kill me… I want to know who you people are."

Bael glanced at Cartman, seeking permission. Cartman only seethed. Blood flowed through his fingers and spread over his knuckles.

"We've been here for years. Our last leader died. With the proper training, we believe Eric will replace them."

"Okay, but who in the actual fuck are you?"

"We've yet to name ourselves. The gods of yesterday have failed us. Satan has failed us. It's time we rose on our own. Create our own god. A human one. Someone that we can see and trust."

"We will kill anyone that's ever fucked with me. Including you," Cartman grinned. "And I'll finally get to have the freedom that was robbed from me."

"That was your fault, fuckhead," Kyle groaned. He looked at Bael. "I'm sure Cartman has promised you a lot, but I've been in group projects with him before. You guys are fucked."

"You're about to die, Kyle. You really want to spend your last seconds being a smartass?"

"Yes."

"Typical."

"It's not my fault you lied on your resumé," Kyle spat out more blood. "You're no different from any other radical, brainwashed cult. I don't understand. Why would you want _him_?"

Officer Bael started squeezing the trigger. "He has powers like we've never seen before, but he's human. With him on our side, we will own this town. And if anyone gets in the way, tries to stop us, they go to the pit and rot."

"That's fucked up. You people are fucked up. Is this seriously what you want to do?" he asked Cartman. "You want to be responsible for all these people?"

Cartman shrugged. "We'll just see what happens, won't we?"

"You're about to see something else." Kenny appeared in the entrance, wet hair clinging to his face. "You'll see something much worse if you don't point that gun somewhere else, right fucking now."

Bael smirked, "Fine, then."

He aimed the other way.

Kenny barrelled through the pews, weaving around Bael's bullets, then jump-kicked him in the neck. He twisted his heel into Bael's throat and killed him, then grabbed Stan by the arms and pushed him toward Kyle.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," he murmured against Stan's cries of pain. Kyle cupped Stan's face and kissed his forehead.

Cartman scrambled for his knife on the ground and pointed to Kenny with both hands, his eyes red. He shook.

"You can't kill all three of us, Cartman!" Kyle got up. He smiled at Kenny. They almost had it. They would win.

"Can't I?" Cartman sneered. He stretched his arms forward as Kenny charged. Cartman caught his wrist and forced it down.

"Kyle, go!" he yelled, trying to wrestle the weapon from Cartman's grip. "Take Stan and go!"

"We're not leaving without you-"

Cartman veered around, elbow first, slicing the blade across Kyle's skin. He was cut off by sudden pressure across the middle of his neck. They watched fresh blood pour from Kyle's open throat.


	36. Kyle Marsh

It all happened so fast - my breath just taken

Away

My hands went to my throat but it didn't stop the blood

My heartbeat in my ears and my thoughts

(o fuck o fuck)

Cartman smiled, he was smiling at me and the next thing I saw was blackness and nothing nothing but felt everything as his thumbs pushed my eyes in and it hurt so fucking much and there was _pop pop_ and warmth went down my cheeks and I tried to scream but there was no sound from me but it seemed that Stan screamed for me as my head hit the floor and there was more yelling and scuffling over my body.

I'm choking and someone is holding my head and saying _it's okay it's okay_ and I feel like I'm leaving my body.

I'm not really here but I try to pull back because

(i cant die i cant die yet

i cant leave

we were going to be fine

you and me and stan we could have worked it out and we would be fine but please dont make me leave please please

i just got here)

I keep hearing this in my head but my heart slows down until the last beat but I keep trying to pull

back a̯͍͈̟̭̅̄̔̏̓̿͌n͔̱̳͇͓̝͚͚͖̅̓̅͗̔̂̃͆̚d̖̥̜̘̯͙̬͈̈͂̇̍ I̬̱̗̠͓̲͐̈́͆̏́̓ p͓̥̥̤̪̬̗̮͌̃̑̌̄̈́̒͊ͅū͍̬͔̣̔͂̄͋́̃̉̐̅l͎͕̣͉̟͉̰̗̝̳̯̃̈͂̐͋̒̋̒́́̒̈́l̝͔̩̤̥̎̇̏͋̃̀̚ a͖̰͍̝̰̟̳̯̝̱͍͕̋̉̂̓͌n̰̣͖̗̝͙̣͙͊͑̌̂̐̒̄̑́̓͐̚d͈͚̬̟̱̽̀͑̍͂̈́́ I̙̖̮̱̝̞̘͂̓͊́ p̤̤̱̩͙͇͙̫͈̳̫̖̽̂̾̄̌͌̎̒̓u͙̦̖̙̯͇͉̙̣̐̎̾̓̃́ḷ͕̭̖̫̥̜̖̜̩̖͑̓͆̌̆͒͆͐̚l̯̣̣̝̙͚͗̿̎̆̀͛͗̋̑̓ à̦̗͕̝̈́̃̽̉̓͆̋̇̚n̟̙͖̫͎̱͍̔͗̾̿d̩̝̟͍̠͔̱̬͖͍̑̓̌̚ͅ I͙͚̙̬̝͈̲̪̒̽́̒ͅ and I

͈͙͍͔̂͑́̓̀̃́͑


	37. Poetry Night

Kenny doesn't think. Doesn't try to work it all out in logical steps. Doesn't let himself process that Kyle has just died. He has to save grief for later.

He just knows.

He knows as soon as Kyle's last breath comes out

a shallow, gentle wave of warmth and his cheeks

soft in his hands. Stan's cries

 _I can't hear his heart anymore… I can't hear at all!_

Cartman stands dumbly as if he's a child in the backyard again, watching them pull Kyle out of the shed.

 _You son of a bitch!_ Stan screams. He tries to get up.

 _Cartman grabs Stan by the hair and peels him back._

 _Stop!_ Kenny's own disembodied, shaking voice clambers out into the bloody void.

(stop

stop what

who would even listen)

Cartman lets go, but not because Kenny told him to.

Vomit pours from his mouth-

Dirt and maggots and blood.

It doesn't stop flowing and he surrenders to his knees

Choking, trying to claim some air for himself

In between violent bursts of bodily fluids.

Stan rolls over.

Kenny looks down on Kyle's face again and he knows.

He scrounges up the dirt around them with callused hands

As much as he can to make five points

Sprinkles lines under Kyle's head.

It's still warm. He's still wearing Kenny's jacket.

He hears a scratching sound from the altar. Stan is holding Bael's gun,

glaring at Cartman.

Kenny can't see Stan's face very well from here but he feels it. He feels

Hate.

(concentrate focus

concentrate kenny)

He takes the knife from the floor. With a deep breath,

he lifts up his shirt and drags the blade over his heart.

Top-left, bottom-right. Top-right, bottom-left.

The X conjures fresh blood but he ignores the pain.

 _Life for life_ , he breathes. He lets the blood run over his fingers.

 _Life for life._

He paints a streak of his blood down the center of Kyle's forehead and down the bridge of his nose, in the middle of his crushed eyes, floating in little pools of crimson.

 _Before time._

A streak on his cheeks.

 _And after time._

Stan has shot Cartman.

 _Before knowing._

Down the chin.

 _And nothing._

Kenny leans down and kisses him one last time.


	38. Last Quarter

For the McCormicks, before Saturday dinner, there was Saturday laundromat. Besides school, this was one of the most stable things Kenny had. It was attached to an old-time ice cream parlor. Sometimes, Kenny would look in the windows and watch the workers scooping in pinstripe shirts and hats, but he never went in.

He knew the inside of the laundromat so well, he could recall almost every inch still, even after years of it being shut down. Near the front sat a nice woman with smile lines and purple bags under her eyes, surrounded by dry cleaning bags and rags. Her two Pomeranians sat in a blanketed basket in the chair behind her. In the corner was a green mat with a T.V. and toys, two rocking chairs, and a bench. There was a Coke machine with fading yellow lights. The ceiling fans were always spinning, gently blowing the leaves of the fake potted plants.

Kenny's favorite thing was the Terminator 2 pinball machine. Half the lights didn't work and Arnold Schwarzenegger's voice sounded strangled but Kenny adored it. All week he would search for quarters in sidewalk cracks and parking lots so he could play it. He wasn't very good, and he desperately wanted to get better. Sometimes he saw the blue outline of Arnold's head when he closed his eyes after a night of playing.

Tonight, he and his father needed to wash extra bedsheets, and he relished having more time to practice. The laundromat was mostly empty, save for the chip tunes of the pinball machine, and the laugh track of whatever sitcom was playing on T.V.

A large woman with a shaved head and flip-flops paced back and forth, watching her circulating clothes and crying into her phone: "I don't have time for this… I am so tired. All I do is work."

Distracted, Kenny watched her pace. She looked at him once then looked away. He wanted to help.

His father's voice floated behind him: "Don't stare, Kenny. It's rude."

Kenny shrugged and went back to his playing. How much would an 11-year old help, anyway? The problem seemed to be much bigger than laundry.

He was especially off his game tonight. Round after round, the little ball slid past the half-flashing lights and between the little levers under the dirtied glass and Kenny's hopeless face. He was almost out of quarters. The Terminator laughed at him.

The door chimed, and a young couple came in with dress shirts to be dry-cleaned. Kenny blew cold air into his sweating palms. With a deep breath, he positioned himself as if he would dive over the machine. The door chimed again. He ignored it. No distractions this time.

He inserted another quarter and zoned in. The sound effects and lights faded from his thoughts. Concentrating on the small silver ball now, he followed it as it zipped over robot skulls and mechanical limbs.

Change lane.

Across the metal rail like a bullet train.

Change lane.

The ball headed toward death but he caught it, just barely with the tip of the flip and lets it rest there for a few seconds before launching it through blaring red lights that read "Security Pass."

It hurls into a winning slot.

Lights dance all around the machine. Music plays. Kenny stepped back, palms up, grinning.

"Nice job," came a voice from the fake fern.

Kenny jumped and turned around. "Holy shit, Kyle!"

"Sorry, did I scare you?"

"A bit." Kenny looked over and saw Gerald loading a basket. "What are you guys doing here? Don't you have a washer and dryer?"

"Our washing machine just broke." Kyle walked toward him, hands in his coat pockets. "And I'm pretty sure my dad doesn't have any clean underwear."

"Yikes."

"Yeah, my mom was yelling something about 'racing stripes,' soooo… here we are."

"Kyle," Gerald peeped from a row over. "Get off the high horse, there. Your underwear isn't exactly immaculate either."

Kyle groaned.

The woman harboring Pomeranians behind her counter got up and started wiping the folding tables with paper towels and vinegar.

"So, uh, how long were you watching me?" Kenny asked.

"Not long. I didn't want to interrupt you. You were practically humping the machine."

Kenny smirked. "I bet you had fun watching that."

"What? No!"

Kenny laughed. After a moment, Kyle laughed too.

Change lane. Lightning struck outside, and the windows rumbled. No one seemed to notice but Kenny. He looked at Kyle and gasped. He was suddenly older and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth.

"Kyle…"

Lightning. He was a child again.

"What?"

He couldn't tell exactly where the memories were merging, what facet of heaven or hell they were in.

"Uh…" Kenny shook his head. "Nothing. Do you want to play?"

"Sure," Kyle reached in his pocket.

"Oh, no. I have a quarter for you."

"You sure?"

"Totally." It was Kenny's last quarter.

He let Kyle have the last game (he won, which didn't surprise Kenny at all) and they retired to the bench. An old man slumped over and asleep in the rocking chair across from them, unfolded laundry draped over his basket. They watched a sitcom on the fuzzy T.V. with disinterest.

"Do you think it would still be funny without the laugh track?" asked Kyle.

"It's not funny to begin with."

"Haha, true."

Kenny glanced at his father, loading two dryers. They had a half-hour to 45 minutes.

"Something on your mind?" Kyle leaned back.

"No, why?"

"You looked like you were worried about something."

A crow hit the window, broke its neck, and fell, blackened feathers splayed out on the pavement. Change lane.

Kyle Marsh, 18 years old, sat next to him with a slit throat. Blood trickled from his eyes and down his cheeks. Kenny was 19 and he could see his skin tightening around his hands like shrink-wrap.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you, Kyle. This wasn't supposed to happen… I was too late."

Kyle touched his face, pulled his hand away and stared at the blood, soaking into the ridges of his fingertips.

"It's not your fault," said Kyle, closing his hand into a fist, watching the blood trail down his wrist. "I wasn't thinking. I got in the way. As usual."

"Kyle…"

Their fathers were gone. The woman crying into her phone left her clothes still spinning. Vinegar still lingered in the air. Laughter was slow and soft.

Kyle walked up to a washer, stared at his distorted reflection in scratched silver. All he saw was blood, his gray skin, blue lips, and darkness where his eyes used to be.

"Is this real? Are we real?"

"The memory is real." Kenny remained seated, arms out, coaxing Kyle to come back. "You are. And you were never 'in the way' of anything. Don't say stuff like that."

Kyle walked slowly back to the corpse on the bench. He curled up next to him and rested his head on his thigh.

"You must be tired." Kenny stroked Kyle's hair.

"Exhausted," he mumbled.

"It'll be over soon. You'll feel better. I promise."

"There's no way that this is what you wanted, Ken."

Kenny paused for a moment, looking down at Kyle's profile. "What I wanted? What I want… what I've always wanted is for you to know that I love you. And I need you to live."

"I'm going to miss you."

"I won't be far, Kyle. I promise. I'll always be looking down."

Change lane.

"Kyle." Kenny nudged him. "Kyle, wake up."

Kenny's father was by the door, waiting impatiently.

"Leave him," he said.

"No," Kenny glared at him, in the tone that would be the centerpiece in all their future confrontations. "Kyle!"

Kyle shifted. "Was I out long?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Nah. You must be really tired, you practically passed out."

"Are you guys leaving?"

"Yeah, we're done." Kenny stood up.

"I'll see you at school on Monday?"

"You'll never see him again," Stuart chimed in with a laugh.

Kenny rolled his eyes. "I'll see you soon, Kyle."

Sleepily, Kyle gave him a little wave. "Later, dude."

"Later."

Still lying on the bench, he watched an upside-down Kenny walk away, out of frame.


	39. Princes of the Universe

**R̍̋͒͡.̑͛̉͐̿͞Ỉ͐͗̂͂͠.́̄͊͞P҇̀́͂.̈̄͌̏̓̕ K̓̿͞Y͂̂͠L̾̐̈́͠E҇̐̀̏͋ M҇͆̿̏A̛͛̚R̛̋́S͆͋̇̍͒̕H͐̈̓͞**

 **1̧̠̰͕̮̭̭̥̜̖̘9͎̞͈̜̦͚̥͇͢ͅͅͅ9̢̲̙̟̜͈͖̞̰̩̯̲̞9̢͙͍̪͎̣̠̖̠͓̜̳-̡͔̮̰̮̝̟ͅ2̨̖͍̝̣͉͚̘̘̳̬̳0̩̭̭̫̪͇͍̮̙͈̱͢1̢̟̬̟̦̜̮̝7̣̲̩͈̘͍̠̘͔͢**

 **MAN WITH NO FACE**

 **(̑̋̕?̀͗̐͠?̌̈́̊́͞?̛̅͆̓̓)̒̂͡**

 **̌̔͑̇̎͝**

 **͗̿͞(̋͊͆͡!̓̐̔͡!̀̐̑͡!͒̈̄́͋͞)҇̉̎̔**

(k

kenny?)

I͌̏̈́̉͠ W̛̆͒̇̐̆I҇̏͗̾L̄̊̈́͌̑͠Ĺ̛̓̿̽͆ H̏̔͌͗̕A̾̒̽̉͞V҇͒̄̀E̛̍̃̚ M̔̇͝Ỳ̛̀ W҇̉̏̚Ȧ̒̕Ý̛͛̚

WHAT HAST THOU DONE? UNNATURAL AND U̿́̌̂̾̉̈́̕Ǹ̓̔͊͐͠K̾̿̑̅̿͋͑̀̂̌̓̍͠I҇̑̒̒̒̽N̉͆̋̽͡D̾́͊̃̔̄̄̊̇̆̎̊̕

 **R̆͆͝.̍͋̐͝I̛̿͒̈́̋.͗͒̌̌̒͠P̑͌̍̾͒͞.̊͛͝ Ḱ͒͐̌͡E͊̔͆̔̀̕N҇̓̍̃̋̓N̛͐͊Y͐̇͞ M͆̃̚͠C̛̃̃̍̍̚C͗̀͌͒͊͞O̍̿̒͝R͐̄͞M̓̆̋͌͛̕İ͛͝Ĉ͑͝Ǩ̾̓̉͞**

 **̔̊͞1҇͛̐͒̐̃9̀̔̏̐̔͝9̛̈̈̎̔9̆̓̏͗̄͝-̿̍̈́̉̿͝?̿̌̆̎̔͝?̐̑͐͝?̔̑̃́͑͝**

҇̒̀̃̏̑

 **͆͂͠T͂̓̌̈́̕H͌̾̌͡Ȅ̏̕Y͂͐̒͗͡ È̛̇̈́͋Ǹ̀͛̉̕D̈́͒̚͡Ư͒͂̑͌̆R̈̃̉͝E̛̒͗̆D́̊̂̇̍͞**

"Kenny?" he called for him but couldn't hear his own voice. Only the name vibrated in his throat. Cold sand skirted over his arms and legs. He lay at the bottom of an ocean, but everything was dry. Coral cradled his head, and violet light touched his skin. He looked above to lurching waves. Through the water, he could see lightning, felt the thunder echo under his ribs.

Kenny was long gone, cast from the frame of his dream.

(how can i dream if i am dead)

He'd never been here before. In all of his memories, being at the bottom of the ocean was in none of them. Several times friends pushed into Stark's Pond and he never sunk to the bottom like this. There was no way he would have lasted.

(AM I DEAD AM I DEAD Ả̉̋̈́̀͡M҇̽̊̆̓̚ Ĭ̅͂̀͠ D͆̐̈́͡E҇̓͑A̛͊̔D̐͊͠)

A vision of a man with a horseshoe scar across his nose and the snarl of a ragged hound grabbed his face with a blood-stained palm, forcing him down on a leather car seat. Something clinked - he could hear it in his head - and saw through the windows between fingers that weights were chained to his ankles. Lightning flashed, and he saw himself sinking, schools of fish swarmed around his floating hands.

(not my hands)

Kyle's hands were pale, bony, with stout fingers. Kenny's hands were large, callused, with long fingers, and one little mole on the skin between his left index finger and thumb. These were Kenny's hands. Kenny's memories.

How long had he been stuck down here, weighted down and bloated with water?

Now he's in a truck, sitting on the street in front of Kyle's house. A photo of Kenny's mother, lodged in the dashboard, and Stuart McCormick is saying something, wagging a finger in his face.

In a tree. It's cold. There's a little orange coat stuck in the branches above. A crow. Stan and Cartman's small faces staring back up. Stan says something and goes to unzip his jacket.

The next moment he recognized.

Plates of challah, hummus, strawberries, raspberries, falafel, and fish. Himself, in the distance surrounded by family, so small in white robes. Then the next image: the back of the bus in early morning dark, lights flashing stalks of corn outside, the back of his and Stan's heads a few seats ahead.

Carol McCormick screaming outside the elementary school, kicking snow, a younger Karen and Kevin wrapped up in blankets surrounded by garbage bags of clothes and toys.

Kyle, backed up against the wall, sunlight through the window casting over his face, little specks of dust and Kyle's lips: what are you?

A popcorn ceiling then hands on the sides of his face, he sees his own eyes:

I love you.

Kyle, dead. Suffocated from blood loss. The image is blurry. Maybe from tears. He can feel his chest burning.

He touched his face. His cheeks turned up small spots of warmth. Then the feeling came back in his toes. His stomach whined. His lungs unfroze.

 **K̑̏͆͌͠E̊̏̈́͊͝N̾̅̔̒͠N̿͑͗̓͡Y̾̃́̾̕ M͐͐͞C̀͊͂̇̕C̓͛̉̿͝Ő̍́̌͋̕R̅͂̕M̎̀̈́̑͡I͋̀͠C̀̎̀̆͝Ḱ̿͝**

 **̛̐̔1̛̍̃̀̍9̊̒̕9̛͒̍̇́̾9͆͗͌̔͛͞-̀̃̃̀͞2̒͗͐̐̀͝0́̽̅̕1̋̈̚͝7́̓͛̕**

 **̓̂̓̅͂͞B҇̌͑E͂̔̂͡L͗͂͗́͠Ő̈́̓̏̓͝V̛̍̇͛̎Ẽ̛́D̀͌̐̍͋͡ Ṡ́̏͞O̐͐̔̊͗̕N҇̀̄̌͆́ Ä́̓̔̐̄͠N҇̐́̃̚D̏͐̿͋͞ B̛̂͊͛̓R҇̊̓͌̌̐O̐̍͡T̿̀̄͐̇͠H̐͛͡E҇͛̀͐R҇̀̆**

 **KYLE MARSH**

 **BELOVED S͂̈͑̕O҇̅̆͋N̅̇̒̀̀͝ AND BROTHER**

 **1999-**

… **.**

With a loud crack, his chest rose off the ground. Garbles of sound wormed into his ears. Screeching, panicked voices. His heart vigorously pumped, awakening all the limbs like a Ferris wheel, ablaze one light at a time. He couldn't see yet, but he could smell smoke. Then the yelling became clearer:

"You shot me! You fucking shot me, asshole!"

"And I'll keep shooting until you're fucking dead!"

His skin tickled. Slowly, he tilted his head back, vision manifesting in fragments until he could make out the patchy, tilted ceiling. He rolled over to his side and first saw Kenny's body, face resting on his arm, skin purple, puffy, with blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, Kenny, no…" Kyle whispered.

"Ky?"

Stan was on his back, gun pointed at Cartman, who was sitting in a pool of blood and holding his thigh. Trembling, Kyle got to his feet. Cartman seized the opportunity of a distracted Stan to swipe the gun away from him.

"Stay back," he pointed at Kyle.

Kyle approached him anyway, eyes bloodshot and aflame with rancor. Cartman shot. Kyle fell back. His head hit the floor.

"Fuuuucckk," he groaned. The bullet went into the tender part between clavicle and shoulder.

"Kyle?!" Stan was trying to get to him.

"Don't! Just stay there."

Wincing, Kyle dug in with two fingers, pulled out the bullet, and threw it at Cartman.

"Fucking sick!" he screamed.

"Oh, fuck off," Kyle sat up again, using a pew to help him stand. "This shit ends _now_ , Cartman."

"I'll keep fucking shooting you," he said. His eyes were closing and he held the gun as if it were a brick. Blood continued to pool around him, and his breathing was heavy, strangled. Dried blood clung to his cheek.

"You can. You'll run out of bullets though," Kyle stepped toward him, bending down to try and get the gun away.

Red and blue flashing lights filled up the windows, alighting the stained glass, the organ, and Jesus. There was huffing, then clicking.

A woman's voice barrelled in: "Stop! Stop what you're doing!" She carefully stepped around Kenny's body.

Kyle rolled his eyes, expecting Cartman to do the same, but he didn't. His eyes were wide and wet, face cold with fear.

"What? These ones aren't on your side, Cartman?" he said, their elbows clashing. Cartman's grip on the pistol was still surprisingly strong.

Footsteps inched closer.

"Sir, put down the gun!"

"I can't do this!" Cartman burst, "I can't go back to how it was!"

"Damn it, Cartman!" Stan yelled, "Put it down! You're going to get us all killed!"

Cartman shook his head.

"You'll never understand what it's like to be me. You'll never fucking know." He wrestled his upper body away from Kyle and lifted the pistol to his temple. "No regrets."

There was an explosion of light and sound, then Cartman's body slumped to the ground. Stan turned over and retched. Rough hands grabbed Kyle's blood-spattered arms, then latched his wrists into handcuffs.

…

 **South Park GAZETTE**

 **July 9, 2017**

 **STRING OF MURDERS RATTLES TOWN**

 **On the night of July 3, nearby campers heard gunshots through the rainstorm. They soon realized that Saint Marcouf, one of the town's oldest churches, was the center of the commotion.**

" **I can't believe this happened in my town," said Mike Phillips, one camper who got caught in the rain that night. "But that building is so old criminals will definitely hide out in that thing."**

 **The criminal that Phillips speaks of is Eric Cartman, a young man born and raised in South Park, responsible for the deaths of four Park County residents, two of which, were former classmates. After taking the lives of his victims, Cartman has since died because of self-inflicted gun wounds.**

 **Police have quarantined the area for further investigation.**

 **LOCAL TEEN BACK FROM THE DEAD**

 **Earlier this year, South Park mourned the loss of Stan Marsh - the boy who went missing for several days until they found his body in the woods by Stark's Pond.**

 **Marsh's sudden reappearance raises several questions about the other body found. There has been speculation about deranged cult activity. Police cannot comment on the rumors at this time.**

 **CANDLELIGHT VIGIL TO BE HELD FOR VICTIMS**

 **Father Maxi and Sister Anne ask everyone and anyone to gather by the bell tower at the South Park library to reflect on the lives lost at the hands of the escaped convict Eric Cartman, and other recent, untimely deaths.**

 **Prayers, stories, and poems are not only welcome but encouraged.**

 **The event will honor the lives of Sheila Broflovski, Gerald Broflovski, Heidi Turner, Butters Stotch, Earl Castonguay, Craig Tucker, and Kenny McCormick.**

9


	40. Always Forever

**Stan Marsh**

 **A.P. English**

 **January 13, 2017**

My Friends and I are Figures in a Wax House

with kiwi eyes and rose-stained lips,

ambrosia cheeks, divine pig tongues.

Before the house closes,

patrons stare at our shining faces,

our little warm coats and hats,

pretend to put their arms around us and smile, smile.

And we smile too,

as if there is some man in the sky,

with stars in his beard, and planets

in his palm.

We smile because their hands

shaped us this way, because

our thoughts are peaches, and

our bodies are full, flowering gardens.

With each heartbeat: puffs of pollen,

with every breath a pomegranate bursts.

My friends and I smile,

for we are strange joys.

…

"If you want to say goodbye, you best do it now," the coroner said to him, "he's going to be cremated in a few hours."

Kyle nodded, his throat burning. It still didn't feel real. The mauve walls with pink trim added to the pastel nightmare he felt trapped in.

He entered a bare room - no art, just plain gray walls, and a table on the other side. The table held up Kenny's body, pristine like he was freshly dead. Kyle closed the door behind him. The room seemed to elongate as he approached.

Karen had picked out his final outfit: black Vans, light blue jeans, and a button-up shirt with a green cactus pattern.

Because Kenny was to be cremated, there was no embalming, and he looked almost exactly how he was the last day Kyle saw him.

"I don't know what to say to you." Kyle's voice echoed slightly. "I've thought about what I wanted to say, but now that I see you, I don't know if I'll be able to get through it. I keep expecting you to get up and tell me I'm being dramatic."

He wanted to turn away and run out crying, let himself not be able to let grief weave through him, throw a tantrum like a child until it all went away. He stared at Kenny's clean face, flawless golden hair, and his closed eyes, hoping they might open. When they didn't, he pulled a flower head from his pocket.

"So, I know you love snapdragons because of your sister, and you started looking at daisies differently because of me… but you've never picked out a favorite flower just for yourself. Your life was so shaped by the people you loved, and everything you did was done with your heart. Every second of your life, you lived for others. And then you… then you let go. You let go so I could live and I'll never be able to describe how grateful I am. I'll never be able to thank you."

He grazed his thumbs over the soft petals.

"It's probably presumptuous of me, but I assigned a flower for you. Just for you, and who you are. It's a red lotus. I picked it for you because it represents compassion, pure love, and selflessness. It's the flower of the heart.

Wiping tears off his cheeks, Kyle gently slipped the flower into Kenny's shirt pocket.

"People love these flowers because they're rare and beautiful. I hope you know that those are the reasons I love _you."_

...

Labyrinth.

Just the word itself, she thought of often. Even the sound of it through one's mouth created its own path of syllabic poetry. La-by-ri-n-th. Starting with the tongue, brief closing of lips, the "r" and "i" rising from the back of the throat, then a final soft click of tongue.

Karen would watch the workers with crossed arms and a hood over her face, pink sneakers crushing wet leaves until they were able to discover how complicated the hidden mazes really were. According to her notes (lists of conversations she'd eavesdropped on), this dangerous area wasn't up for investigation until Kyle reported the bodies they found.

Then even more shrapnels of suspicion came up when they investigated Bael's house and found tons of photos of the boys, most of them taken without them knowing, other sacrificial weapons, and small animal carcasses. From the contact information in his address book, they were able to locate other cult members. Most of them fled. Some were dead.

One afternoon, Kyle received a letter. Rather, it was dropped on the doorstep for him to find later. It was written in type font, the paper yellowed at the edges:

 **To the one called Kyle:**

 **We know you have been chosen. We were wrong to believe anyone other than you could lead us.**

 **Think. You could be the catalyst for severe change in this world.**

 **Find us soon.**

Kyle read it out loud in the living room, shaking. Stan snatched it out of his hands, picked up a lighter and started burning the corner before Kyle stopped him.

"Wait, we need to take it to the police. I need to prove it if I think they're tracking me."

Karen added what the letter said in her leather-bound journal, already stuffed with photographs and various articles.

When the detective on duty asked Kyle why it would say "we know you have been chosen," Kyle shrugged.

"I don't know," he lied, the words straddling his throat, stinging the tip of his tongue.

Karen didn't know why she wrote everything down like this. All of it made an appearance in her pages: the dates of the town ordinance to demolish Saint Marcouf, all of the funerals (even the small, quiet one for Cartman, on a hill where wildflowers were rampant), and even the day they were given Kenny's ashes and she remembered how she lay snapdragons and daisies in front of his urn.

Maybe, she hoped, in 100 years or so, when her body is ashes in a golden urn next to her brother, someone will read it and know to never let this happen again.

Sometimes she sat in Kenny's office for hours, the smell of motor oil having permanently soaked into the furniture, the carpet, the office chair she sat and spun in until her head swam.

...

"What's the matter, Kyle? Don't have anything to say today?"

Kyle could almost punch him right in the bifocals. Every week, it felt like this therapist wanted to push his buttons as if he were some specimen under observation, a variant unit with no true quality of life. Normally, Kyle spewed for the whole hour: _I miss Kenny, but his sister hates me now. I love Stan, but he's not saying what he wants to say to me. I can't believe I watched someone I grew up with shoot himself in the face. I can't believe "you'll never understand what it's like to be me" still sticks to my brain. And then, how do I dissect what happened to my parents? It's even my house now, and I don't fucking want it. How can I fix it up to sell it when I can't stand to go inside? I don't know how to go on with the rest of my life with this trauma on my back unless I start popping Vicodin._

 _Silence unsettles me. I stood by the water at midnight and I freaked out. I was listening for lapping water but the pond was frozen, so quiet and dark that I couldn't catch my breath. My heart beat so fast and I sweat, and looked around at the mounds of crystal snow and fuck, really there was no noise, and I cried. I started fucking crying because it was so damn quiet._

Each session circled around these topics like a rickety wooden wheel just broken off a wagon, circling and circling in the dirt but never falling to rest. This therapist, Dr. Edmund, who always wore a burgundy dress shirt and black suspenders, offered little to no input on Kyle's fervent testimonials. After several weeks, it became apparent to Kyle that Dr. Edmund was waiting for something. Rather, waiting for him to _admit_ something. After all, the first time he saw Kyle, Kyle was in handcuffs, a bloody scowl painted across his face, furiously thrashing in Officer Barbrady's grip, screaming _let me the fuck go!_ before kicking a vintage typewriter off the Deputy's desk. The lightbulb above him shattered.

He was pissed when they separated him and Stan, wheeling him into the back of an ambulance, then throwing Kyle into the back of a cop car. He didn't even get to see them take Kenny's body away.

But Kyle was innocent. The police accounts and all forensic evidence pointedly said so. Sharon Marsh pleaded that there was no way he was involved with anything Cartman was, that he was in hysterics and needed to be with family, not in handcuffs.

When he was finally released, Sharon and Stan picked him up. The boys spent the ride home embraced in the back seat, Kyle's head on Stan's lap, holding his knee and sobbing.

There was plenty he couldn't tell to this doctor of psychology, even if it would break the wheel. And Dr. Edmund wouldn't be prepared to hear: _I can't die. Not that I want to. But because I can't die, I have responsibilities I never knew I would have. I got fucking stabbed in the neck the other week, could you have guessed that? I got stabbed in the neck because I saw Liane Cartman being attacked by Skeeter's and I intervened. I pulled my hood down and jumped in between them. The guy just fucking drove his switchblade into my neck and up into my jaw and I pissed myself because it hurt so much. She was gone before I could say sorry. Sorry that your son died twice._

 _And when I woke up, Stan was in front of our bedroom door. He found me and put me to bed. He said "you can't do this to me anymore, you just can't." So I'm more careful now, I try to be smart about things. But it's hard to be careful when there are no repercussions. I look at myself in the mirror and there are no scars. Even the ones I got as a kid. None. All gone. Even the one Stan gave me. I can't feel that white bump on my scalp and smile and think of him._

 _That's the thing about starting over, I guess. All the good gets wiped out with the bad_

But admitting this would buy him a fast pass to the nuthouse.

"Maybe we should reschedule," Kyle said. "I don't feel like talking today."

...

 **December 26, 2017**

He woke up and immediately reached out for Stan's body.

Stan wasn't there. Kyle rolled over, pulling the comforter up to his nose. The alarm clock still garnished in all of their Sharpie signatures, read 11:27 am. A steaming cup of coffee sat next to it.

(aw stan)

He sat up, wrapped his fingers around the porcelain Colorado flag, and sipped. Just in time for this birthday, the new Butcher Babies record came in, and Stan played it constantly ever since. It played now at the lowest volume, wavering under the needle of Stan's vinyl player:

 _We can live forever_

 _But if we die, we die together_

 _Run with me_

 _Run with me..._

Their room had become its own city, towering boxes of comic books, vinyl records, posters, figurines, and other trinkets. The program for "Titus Andronicus" lay on top of a stack of _Popular Mechanics._

"I like the biography they wrote for you," Stan said one August afternoon, lying on their bed, letting the electric fan cool him. His ribs were still healing then, and the cast was stuffy. " _Kyle Marsh hasn't been with us long, but during his time here, he's proved himself to be a very hard worker. From helping build the set to assisting others with their lines, you'll never see Kyle without a big smile on his face. He has indeed contributed a lot to bring up the positive and loving energy in our little drama community. We're excited for Kyle to grow with us!_ Aw, I always knew you had a little theatre gay in you. I wish I could have seen."

"I'm sure my understudy filled my boots just fine," Kyle said.

"Doubt it."

He wondered how many times he'd accidentally kicked Stan last night. He had to be keeping a tally by now. Dreams almost never stuck around anymore, as if his brain twisted and wringing them out before they could soak in. There were only so many he could remember, and he never knew what they meant. A few nights before, he dreamed he was trapped in a decrepit, dark house. Looking for help, he found himself in the basement. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling to the cold, cement floor. When he looked up, multiple pairs of eyes looked back at him. Animal eyes, exotic ones: parrots, capybaras, bearded dragons, and Fennec foxes, all hoarded in cages stared him down. Then he woke up.

A dream interpretation website said: "Having a dream about some exotic animals you are looking at or encountering means that your most secret desires and wants will never come true." It was bullshit, he was sure. And he couldn't find anything on trapped exotic animals. Maybe he didn't need interpretation for that.

After detectives released their grip from the Broflovski house ( _what the fuck else do they need to know?_ Kyle complained several times). Sharon and Randy spent the rest of the summer refurbishing, repainting, re-everything to sell it, while Kyle popped in as much as he could to help. They insisted they would take care of it all, but Kyle was stubborn. Sometimes, the brown splatters on the living room wall and bloody Rorschach wings in the carpet clipped his mind. But, by the time autumn came, they were able to sell it to a new suburban couple, determined to brighten any dark energies with their peppy, athletic children and golden retriever. Ike and Kyle went back to their new home to slaughter life one day at a time.

Kyle yawned, ran his hands through his hair.

Sounds of life came from downstairs. He heard Randy say something and Ike's laugh. Footsteps, and then Stan opened the door holding a plate, Sparky dancing in and out of his legs.

"You can't have Pop-Tarts, Sparky, they make you constipated."

Stan was still in his pajamas: loose, blue flannel pants and a white shirt with a mountainous skyline. Parts of his hair stuck up on the sides of his head.

"Hey, you're awake finally."

Stan pulled out the computer chair next to Kyle. Now that the cast was off, Stan took no movement for granted. Every step centered in grace and purpose. Every meal ate slowly. His face was plumper, healthier. One of the first things Stan and Kyle did when they came home was take turns playing through the _Mass Effect_ trilogy again, spending mindless hours scanning planets for minerals, and loving every second of it.

"Hope you're ready for lazy breakfast in bed."

"Always," Kyle said, scooting up to the headboard. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, you kicked me a few times but other than that, yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm kind of into it now."

Kyle laughed. "New kink unlocked, Stan?"

"Ha, maybe." Stan handed him a Pop-Tart.

"What kind is this?" Kyle asked, cracking it in half.

"Maple bacon."

" _Maple bacon?_ How?"

"Black market."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

Sparky jumped onto the bed, sitting and staring at the boys while they ate.

"Are you going to give Karen that thing today?" Stan asked.

"If she doesn't push me into traffic first."

"She won't."

"She wants to."

"No, she doesn't. Not really. And even if she did-" Stan closed his mouth suddenly, but Kyle knew the next words: _it wouldn't matter._

"I think that's what bothers her the most."

"Maybe," Stan took a sip of Kyle's coffee, then scrunched his nose. "Oh, that was a mistake."

"Do you… do you want to talk about it?"

Stan was the one who found the "thing" a week before. It was Kenny's star. The certificate, location chart, and photo still wrapped in gold tissue. Kyle told him everything that happened before, but the star discovery made it more real, more painful, for Stan.

"I think we've already talked about what we needed to talk about," Stan set the plate down and walked to the laundry basket.

Kyle watched as he kicked off his pajamas and pulled on a pair of acid wash jeans, then looked for socks. Kyle took a silent bite. Sparky's ears perked when he saw crumbs drop.

Stan turned back around and saw that Kyle was eyeing him.

"What?"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm taking Sparky for a W-A-L-K."

"Oh."

Stan sighed and sat next to Kyle on the bed.

"What do you want me to say, Kyle?"

"I want you to say what you're thinking. You haven't said anything all week about this, and it has me worried that you-"

"-Kyle, don't. Stop." He pushed some hair away from Kyle's forehead. "Listen, if something really had happened to me, I would have wanted you to move on. And Kenny was… Kenny was a good guy. And he cared about you a lot. I'd rather it be him than some random asshole."

Kyle took Stan's hand in his own and kissed it.

…

After a shower, a fresh sleek of hair gel, and the maple bacon brushed out of his mouth, Kyle walked downstairs.

Sharon and Randy had just left - he saw their red sedan back out of the driveway and head west across the living room window. The kitchen was still warm and sweet with Christmas spice, gingerbread, cinnamon. The day before, they stayed in pajamas all day, drank their weight in hot chocolate, and watched figure skating while opening presents. Hanukkah ended five days before, but the menorah still glistened on the mantle.

Karen and Ike were wrapped up in blankets, eating brownies while watching Bob Ross.

"What percent chance do you think he'll paint a cabin?" she asked Ike.

"69%"

"That's what you always say."

He smiled when he saw Kyle under the archway. "Hey, you're up. Stan said you hardcore passed out last night. Were you up too late playing with each other's nutcrackers?"

Karen pretended not to hear.

Kyle shook his head. "Hey, Karen. Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a sec?"

No response. Ike nudged her.

"I heard him," she said.

She set her plate on the coffee table, then walked up to him, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

…

He pushed it across the table to her. "I know you hate me right now, but I think you should have this."

"Another sympathy card?"

"No."

She peeled the gold tissue over and stared at the certificate for a long time, then burst into tears. "I… when was this?"

"I gave it to him after the play."

She swallowed, wiping away at her eyes. In the corner of his eyes, Kyle saw Ike peep around the wall, then disappear.

"If it wasn't for you and Stan," she said, not even looking at Kyle. "Kenny would still be alive."

"You know I think about that every day, Karen? Every day I think about how if it wasn't for me, my mom would still be here. I think about how I'll never see Kenny pull up in that god awful truck. I wish I could hear his voice again. I wish I could just call him up right now and ask him to hang out like it's a regular day, but I can't. I can't and it fucking sucks.

But if it wasn't for Kenny, Cartman and that fucking cult would have killed us all. You know that."

"I know." Her eyes narrowed, her voice a chilled melody.

Kyle stayed silent, watching as she traced her finger along with the star chart. It had been hell for her family. Closing down the auto shop for a few weeks until Stuart could get his shit together, have a memorial, have Kenny's ashes placed in his office at the shop. A few people were hired that wanted to work for the infamous Kenny's Auto, as it was now called.

Her face softened.

"You really loved him," she whispered.

"What?"

"You really loved my brother, right?"

"Of course I did. I do. I always will."

"If Kenny was alive, who would you have chosen?"

"Karen…"

"...I'm sorry. That was a fucked up question to ask."

"It's okay. Look, we don't have to be best friends, but I will _always_ make sure you're taken care of. Always."

"What about me?" Ike was peeking around the wall again.

Kyle shrugged. "I'll think about it."

Karen scooped up the papers and held them to her chest. "Thank you. Thank you for this."

…

It wasn't a terribly cold winter this year. Snow layered the ground, but there was no wind, and the sun was beautifully bright. Kyle stepped out, put in earbuds, and started walking.

Downtown was busy, people walking hand-in-hand, cozy in mid-holiday glamor as if no summer massacre had just happened a few months prior. Even Kyle was submitting to a little happiness - he figured he should at some point, anyway. The worst was over. Maybe this one afternoon, he could pretend to be like these people with normal lives. Maybe.

A black cat crossed in front of his feet. He smiled to himself. "Of course."

The laundromat was now a spa and space to have palm readings done. Kyle stopped for a moment to look in the window. Next to a board listing different facial prices was a small, square painting. A woman with large, hollow eyes and a long neck. Written below, shimmering red text: _the divine in me sees the divine in you._

He could still picture the washers, the plants, the lady with Pomeranians, the pinball machine.

…

He found Stan on a bench at Stark's Pond with Sparky curled up in his lap.

"Oh, hey! I was just about to head back home," he said when Kyle sat next to him.

"We can stay here a bit if you want."

"Sure. It's pretty nice out."

"Yeah, it is."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the trees rustle with wildlife, listening to Sparky's breathing.

"So…" Kyle shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "You have any New Year's resolutions?"

Stan frowned. "No? Was I supposed to?"

"No, not at all. I just… nevermind. I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"I'm not. I mean, I am, but… I don't know."

"Did you have any resolutions?"

"Oh. No." A car drove by, bass blaring, ascended a hill, then faded out. "I wanted to ask you something else, actually."

"What is it?"

"I've been wondering for a while… I mean, neither of us has brought it up yet," Kyle fiddled with loose threads hanging off his pocket, not wanting to look at Stan's face. "Did… did you still want to get married?"

"Oh, wow. I was not expecting that."

"Is that a no?"

"Uh, well, Kyle." Stan laughed a little. "We already live together. You still wear my ring. And you took my last name. We're basically married already. We really don't need a piece of paper to prove anything. I think it's pretty established that we love each other."

"Oh."

"But… I would like to someday, though."

"Me too."

Kyle put his arm around Stan's shoulders.

"So, for realsies though, Stan. 2018. What do you want to do?"

Stan chewed his lip, then said: "I want to go to school. I really do."

"For what?"

"English, I guess. Or music."

"I'm sure you won't have any problems with that."

"We'll see."

"You'll be amazing."

They snuggled closer, Stan resting his head on Kyle's shoulder, nuzzling his nose into his cheek.

"This is something I've been wanting to say to you, Kyle. I wasn't sure how to bring it up but you've already kind of picked at it."

"What?"

"Do you remember that one summer when I was really, really sick with the flu?"

"Yeah, it sucked. I felt so bad for you."

"I was out of it most of the time, but I do remember you were all excited because this group of scientists were able to reverse time on a coffee bean or a lima bean, _some_ type of bean, for like half a second. And you asked me if there was ever anything I wish I could reverse for half a second. I said I didn't know."

"I'm guessing that you know now."

"It was difficult… there's a lot of little vignettes of time I want to take back. But that split second where I threw the ring at you. Your face… your face. I'll never forget your face at that moment. I would take it back so fast."

"There are a million moments I would reverse, too. Including that one." Kyle sighed and scratched Sparky. "To be honest, I'm really scared, Stan. Our lives are going to be so different from now on. Very less than perfect."

"I don't want things to be perfect. I want them to just be."

They kissed, then looked back out over the water, the snowbanks, smelled the spruce air of their little mountain town.

"I don't know what I would have done."

"Hm?"

"I just don't know what I would have done if-"

…

 **Sometime in late 2013**

"-you had died that day."

Strawberry Migraine finished their soundcheck. The lights grew dark.

"It's going to take a lot more than a god damn raccoon to kill me!" Kyle yelled above the crowd's whooping.

"Good!" Stan grinned, then kissed him again. "I need you."

Moments later they were in the throes of song, of bodies mashing together, their arms up and wiggling. One girl crowd-surfed at the front, giggling and making devil horns with her fingers.

Stan grabbed Kyle's arm and pouted. "I want to do that. I want to go up."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah!"

Another beer can flew past Kyle's face.

"I… okay. We can try."

Kyle bent down, wrapped his arms around Stan's waist, and lifted. People around them caught on and helped raise Stan into the air, where he was carried off on the hands of others.

Someone tapped Kyle on the shoulder. "You want to go up, too?"

Kyle hesitated, watching Stan dip, then surge back up.

"You know what? Yeah! Yeah, I think I'll go with him."

The man scooped him off the sticky floor and released him to the crowd. It felt like he was being thrown, his stomach was churning.

He caught up with Stan and reached out with his X-ed out hand. Their fingers touched, and Kyle never forgot how Stan looked that night, his sweating, beautiful, pink face bathed in white light; bass riveting his bones and the beat in sync with his red lotus heart; young and absolutely weightless in a sea of hands, forever clutching a fistful of his own river teeth.

THE END.

Guys... Thank you, thank you so much for all of your kindness and patience over the past two years. It's been such an emotional journey since starting this fic and I'm not sure if I could have gotten through it without your encouragement. I can't state how much the support has made my heart swell.

As always, you can find me on IG and Tumblr as nonbinarybead.

I made a master playlist of all music mentioned or artists that inspired (it's a flaming hot Cheeto mess tbh): playlist/4LM1WukeAMaMzR6bgTkTpY?si=NJ_WQIrQRPqob1v9rEVmGQ

Through some miracle, I was also able to get one of Stan's poems published: thefamilyconcertminusone

Thank you again for being so amazing. 3

21


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